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ARCADE  ECHOES 

SELECTED  POEMS 

FROM    THE 

Virginia  University  Magazine 
1856-1890 

COLLECTED    AND    ARRANGED    BY 

THOMAS    L.    WOOD 

REVISED    AND    ENLARGED    BY 

JOHN   W.  FISHBURNE 

1856-1894 


CHARLOTTESVILLE,  VA 

A.  C.  BRECHIN,  Publisher 
1894 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
A.  C.  BRECHIN 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


So  tte  Jttetnors  of 
HENRY   W.    GRADY 

WHO,  EMBODYING  IN  HIS  LIFE  AND  WORDS  THE  FIRE  AND  ELEGANCE 

OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH,  DIED  WITH  THE  SWAN-SONG  OF  THE 

NEW  SOUTH  ON  HIS  LIPS,  THESE 

ECHOES 

FROM  THE  YOUNG  LIFE  OF  BOTH  AT  HIS 

AI.MA   MATER 
ARE    AFFECTIONATELY     DEDICATED 


iV!Ja70370 


TO    THOMAS  LONGSTREET   WOOD, 

WITH  life's  first  laurels  in  his  eager  hands, 
Down  the  dim  slopes  of  death  he  went  away  : 
Lingering  not  here  disconsolate,  as  they 

Who  wait  and  watch  the  ebbing  of  the  sands 

Of  life,  he  suddenly  broke  the  bitter  bands 
That  bind  the  soul  within  its  coil  of  clay. 
And  with  no  single  hope  or  faith  grown  gray. 

Passed,  blithe  and  young,  into  the  Golden  Lands. 

Hope  dies,  love  withers,  memory  fails  and  fades, 
But  through  the  long  years'  ceaseless  ebb  and 
flow 

These  faint,  far  Echoes  from  the  old  Arcades, — 
Blow  71  through  the  reeds  of  boyhood  long  ago, — 

hi  sunlit  hours,  in  twilight" s  quiet  shades 
Will  speak  to  us  of  One  we  used  to  know, 

JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON. 


PREFACE    TO   SECOND    EDITION. 

In  revising  and  enlarging  Arcade  Echoes  I  have 
omitted  very  few  of  th^  poems  that  appeared  in 
the  former  edition  edited  by  Mr.  Wood  ;  but  I 
have  added  quite  a  number  which,  in  my  judg- 
ment, are  well  worthy  of  a  place  in  this  col- 
lection. 

The  piece  in  the  former  edition  entitled  "  Lee  to 
the  Rear  "  I  have  omitted,  since  it  was  not  origin- 
ally contributed  to  the  Magazine ;  and  "  My  Ship  " 
for  the  same  reason.  I  have  published  with  the 
pieces  in  this  edition  the  names  of  the  authors  as 
far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover  them,  of  whom 
some  have  already  attained  to  distinction  in  the 
field  of  literature. 

J.  W.  F. 

Charlottesville,  Va., 
August  15,  1894. 

Thomas   Longstreet  Wood   was    born    in 

Albemarle  County,  Virginia,  on  the   14th   day  of 

^  November,  1867.     Having  acquired  a  preparatory 

education  at   a  private  school  in  Charlottesville 


8        PREFACE    TO   SECOND  EDITION. 

and  at  the  Episcopal  High  School  at  Alexandria, 
Va.,  he  entered  the  University  of  Virginia  in  the 
year  1887. 

The  natural  bent  of  his  mind  was  toward  lit- 
erature, and  he  became  a  constant,  though  not 
frequent,  contributor  of  prose  and  poetry  to  the 
Virginia  University  Magazi7ie.  He  excelled  par- 
ticularly in  the  delineation  of  character,  ample 
material  for  which  he  drew  from  the  neighbor- 
hood where  he  had  been  born  and  reared.  Two 
of  his  stories  published  in  the  Magazine  won  the 
first  place — one  taking  the  prize  offered  for  the 
best  production  in  prose  published  during  a  cer- 
tain period;  the  other,  entitled  "  Shiflett's  Hol- 
low," taking  the  Magazine  Medal  for  the  session 
of  1888  and  1889. 

He  was  closely  connected  with  and  deeply  inter- 
ested in  many  college  organizations,  and  was  an 
ardent  member  of  the  Delta  Kappa  Epsilon  Fra- 
ternity and  one  of  the  founders  of  the  O.  W.  L. 
Club.  After  a  stay  at  the  University  of  three 
years,  he  accepted  a  place  as  teacher  at  his  Alma 
Mater,  the  Episcopal  High  School,  where  he 
remained  for  two  years,  equally  beloved  by 
teachers  and  pupils,  during  which  time  he  con- 
tributed numerous  small  articles  and  poems  to 
some  of  the  leading  newspapers  of  the  country 
— amongst  others,  the  A^ew  York  Herald  and  the 
Detroit  Free  Press.  At  the  end  of  the  session  of 
1891-92,  he  returned  to  Albemarle  to  seek  the  rest 


PREFACE    TO    SECOND  EDITION.        9 

and  quiet  which  he  so  much  needed;  but  his  con- 
stitution, which  he  had  taxed  too  far  by  his  con- 
tinuous labor,  suddenly  gave  way,  and  he  died  on 
the  31st  of  July,  1892. 

Witty  in  conversation,  possessed  of  great  liter- 
ary taste,  gentle  in  character,  and  enthusiastic  in 
nature,  his  life  was  full  of  promise,  and  his  un- 
timely death  brought  grief  into  many  hearts. 


PREFACE. 

You  have  in  the  following  pages,  gentle  reader, 
a  faithful  reproduction  of  student  life,  thought,  and 
feeling  under  the  arcades.  It  is  not  in  an  exhaust- 
ive prose  essay  on  The  Advantages  of  Historical 
Study  that  we  can  see  how  the  University  men 
live  ;  the  average  article  on  Napoleon  gives  us 
little  idea  of  their  thought;  and  Midnight  Reveries 
are  but  poor  representatives  of  feeling  other  than 
of  cold  from  the  '*  storm  wind  without,"  and  the 
**  gray  ashes  falling  from  the  dying  embers."  But 
in  some  jingling  narrative  of  dark  Calithumpian 
adventure,  the  writer  of  which *no  doubt  now 
indites  sundry  sage  and  monitory  letters  to  his 
own  son  ;  in  a  few  tripping,  tender  lines  to  some 
unknown,  whose  matronly  form  now  probably 
retains  scant  traces  of  the  "willowy  grace"  of 
yore  ;  in  some  burst  of  poetic  passion  that  gleams 
through  the  clouds  of  glory  that  we  trail ;  in  a 
word,  in  the  poetry  of  youth,  there  may  be  plainly 
seen  the  lights  and  shadows,  the  many  joys  and 
the  few  sorrows,  that  make  up  the  life,  thought, 
and  feeling  of  that  time. 


12  PREFACE. 

Artists,  physicians,  lawyers,  editors,  may  in  the 
following  lines  have  sighed  their  callow  love, 
breathed  their  ambitions,  laughed  at  Dame  For- 
tune. The  unknown  author  of  some  one  of  these 
fugitive  poems  may  have  passed  out  into  the  great 
literary  world,  where,  however,  the  books  he  now 
writes  for  money,  I  warrant,  have  less  of  the  gen- 
uine ring  than  the  little  natural  verses  of  his 
"salad  days."  Another  may  be  sleeping  where 
the  grasses  wave  and  whisper  over  the  dust  of  A 
Georgia  Volunteer, — we  do  not  know. 

That  the  collection  is  no  larger  is  due  in  the 
first  place  to  lack  of  space,  but  also  very  much 
to  the  fact  that  most  of  the  omitted  poems  are 
of  the  pseudo-Byronic  cast,  in  which  "sadness" 
rhymes  with  "madness,"  and  only  a  line  divides 
"  breath  "  from  "  death."  Dark  references  in  the 
style,  and  often  in  the  words,  of  Mr.  Poe,  to 
blighted  hopes  and  saddened  lives  are,  we  believe, 
inspired  less  by  mysterious  afflictions  than  by 
undigested  suppers;  and  longings  to  flee  to  sundry 
distant  isles — methods  of  transportation  being  no 
consideration — where  lone  seas  howl  as  a  steady 
occupation,  and  false  man  ne'er  comes  and 
woman's  eye  is  absent,  arise  frequently  from  the 
implacable  natures  of  tailors  and  misunderstand- 
ings with  the  washerwoman.  I  have,  conse- 
quently, been  unwilling  to  drag  the  effusions  of 
these  stricken  hearts  before  the  public. 

In    conclusion,   I  would    say  that  if  this   little 


PREFACE.  13 

volume  has  the  effect,  no  matter  in  how  small 
a  degree,  of  bringing  our  University  before  our 
people  in  a  new,  and,  consequently,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  a  more  prominent  light,  I  shall  feel  that  I 
have  not  worked  in  vain. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Whip-Poor-Will 19 

Lines  to  My  Next-Door  Neighbor         .        .  20 

My  Little  Classic  Divinity         ...  22 

Satisfied 25 

The  Dog  of  the  Louvre       ....  25 

The  Proudest  Lady 28 

Hidden  Chimes 30 

"The  Wee  Little  Thing"       .        .        .        .32 

Only  a  Kiss 33 

The  Rested  Heart 34 

On  the  Pond 36 

She  Has  Drifted  Away 37 

The  Big  Horn  of  the  Range       ...  39 

To  a  Mosquito           42 

The  Sun 44 

Long  Ago 46 

A  Beaux  Yeux 48 

The  Cavalier 50 

To-morrow  Morning 52 

An  Old  Air 53 

Chateaux  en  Espagne 55 

My  True  Love's  Wealth  .        .        .        .57 

For  a  Lady  Wearing  a  Lily       .        .        -59 

Transformations 60 

"  Mein  Liebchen  "          .....  63 

Amor  Manet 64 


l6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

"Where?" 65 

"Cherries" 66 

A  Woman's  Hair 70 

The  War  of  the  Roses 71 

In  Absence 72 

A  Thought 72 

Ma  Blonde 73 

The  Blue  Ridge 74 

On  a  Picture  of  M •        .        •        •  75 

Love  and  Death         .        .        .        .        .        .76 

Foam  Pictures 77 

Edelweiss 79 

The  Gold  String 80 

After  the  Diploma 82 

A  Bit  of  Human  Nature       ....  83 
In  the  German           .        .        .        .        .        .85 

The  Harp-Girl 87 

Plantation  Song 88 

Y=  Poet  to  His  Ladye  Love         ...  88 

La  Campagne  d' Amour 91 

Corking 92 

Friends 93 

To 94 

bonnybel     ........  94 

The  Lily  and  the  Brook      ....  96 

Adieu 96 

A  Toast .  97 

Y^  Ynnkb  Spott^ 99 

A  Reverie 99 

A  Mirage 100 

To 102 


CONTENTS. 

17 

PAGE 

The  Modern  Olympus      .... 

.        103 

At  the  Opera 

107 

Sal's  Towser  and  My  Trouser 

.       IIO 

When  Shadows  Fall    .... 

III 

Reflection 

.       112 

Recollections 

113 

And  now  She's  Married  .... 

.     115 

Declaration  in  Assumpsit    . 

116 

"God  is  Eternal  Loneliness" 

.    118 

Ballade  

119 

The  Last  of  the  Fairies 

.     120 

Life          . 

122 

Aunt  Phcebe's  Remonstrance  . 

.       123 

Paraphrase  of  Horace.     Book  II.,  Ode  III.      125 

Foreshadowings 

127 

Ballade  of  Cheerful  Verse    . 

.       128 

At  Dawn 

129 

On  Tying  Daphne's  Shoe 

.       129 

The  Flirt 

130 

ARCADE   ECHOES. 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Bird  of  the  eventide, 

From  the  lone  mountain-side 
Falls  thy  wild  note  on  my  heart  with  a  thrill, 

Bringing  up  memories, 

Countless  and  varied,  as 
Falls  each  sad  note  on   my   ear, — "  Whip-poor- 
Will!" 

Mem'ries  of  early  days 

Passed  in  pure  childhood's  ways. 
When  naught  this  heart  knew  of  guile  or  of  ill ; 

Mem'ries  of  later  times, 

When  youth  to  manhood  climbs, 
Steal  o'er  me  now  with  thy  cry, — "Whip-pooi> 
Will !  " 

Dark,  sad,  and  sorrowful, 

Some  of  them  borrowful 
Measures  of  gloom  from  the  shades  of  the  night ! 

Peaceful  and  happy,  too, 

Some  which  I  owe  to  you, 
Sprite  !  doomed  forever  to  flee  from  the  light. 


20  LINES    TO  MY  NEIGHBOR, 

Scenes,  long  forgotten,  now 

Crowd  round  my  throbbing  brow, 
Till  it  appears  that  I  roam  thro'  them  still; 

Bright  as  they  ever  were, 

Come  back  these  scenes  of  yore. 
Brought    by    thy    thrilling    cry, — oh,  Whip-poor- 
Will! 

Soft  as  a  lover's  sigh 

Now  comes  thy  plaintive  cry, 
Mellowed  by  distance,  as  flitting  at  will. 

Leaving  the  mountain-side, 

Through  its  dark  glens  you  glide. 
Seeking,  still  vainly,  some  rest,  Whip-poor- Will. 

Rest,  thou  may'st  never,  bird  ! 

For  still  thy  plaint  is  heard 
Dying  in  echoes  away  on  the  hill  ; 

Till  the  gray  dawn  grows  bright 

Sadly  thou  spend'st  each  night, 
Wailing  thy  life  away,  poor  Whip-poor-Will  ! 

November,  1859.  -^'  -^* 


LINES  TO   MY  NEXT-DOOR    NEIGHBOR. 

If  the  strange  old  Indian  doctrine  is  true 
(The  transmigration  of  souls,  I  mean), 

I  think  I  can  tell  the  course  that  you 

Have  taken  since  you  on  this  earth  have  been. 


LINES    TO   MY  NEIGHBOR,  21 

For  first  you  were  a  shell-fish  small 
In  the  Mediterranean's  purple  wave  ; 

And  you  bored  and  bored  in  a  column  tall 
Till  you'd  built  your  house  and  dug  your  grave. 

Then  next  you  left  the  rolling  sea, 
And  sought  the  air  on  buzzing  wing, 

And,  as  a  white-faced  bumble-bee, 
You  bored  and  bored  all  the  sunny  spring. 

But  'twere  a  wearisome  narration 

To  tell  the  varied  course  you  ran 
Through  all  the  grades  of  all  creation 

Until  you  reached  the  summit, — man. 

When  now  you  reached  this  high  condition, 
The  fates  decreed  you  a  noble  home 

In  a  family  holding  the  first  position 

In  the  mighty  seven-hilled  city  of  Rome. 


^ 


b4hey  gave  you  a  priesthood  there  one  day, 
And  then  you  wrote  up  over  your  door, 
For  a  sort  of  a  sign  (as  one  might  say). 
One  word,  and  that  was  "  augnror^ 

I  will  not  tell  how  since  that  time, 
With  fin  or  feather,  cold  or  warm, 

Through  many  a  land  and  many  a  clime, 
At  last  you've  reached  your  present  form. 


22      MV  LITTLE    CLASSIC  DIVINITY, 

When  next  you  drop  this  mortal  coil, 
And  take  a  new  body  on  Lethe's  shore, 

You'll  speculate  in  kerosene  oil, 

And  still  will  your  motto  be  "  I  Bore." 

January-,  t868.  PERFORATUS. 


MY  LITTLE  CLASSIC  DIVINITY. 

HENRY   HOWARD   MORTON   TO   MISS   H. 

Upon  Potomac's  western  shore 
There  dwells  a  lovely  maiden. 

With  treasures  rare  of  classic  lore 
Her  royal  mind  is  laden. 

And  oh  !  she  is  a  Hebe  fair  ! 

Divine  in  form  and  feature. 
With  more  than  Juno's  stately  air ; 

In  sooth,  a  peerless  creature  ! 

In  whom  all  classic  graces  blend. 

This  learned  little  woman  ; 
And,  though  she  wears  the  Grecian  bend. 

Her  nose  is  slightly  Roman  ! 

Her  voice  is  rich  as  Sappho's  lyre, 

That  theme  of  poets*  praises. 
And  in  her  eyes  Minerva's  fire 

With  dazzling  splendor  blazes  1 


MV  LITTLE   CLASSIC  DIVINITY.       23 

Within  the  storied  Past  she  lives, 

Converses  oft  w^ith  Cato, 
And  sparkling  gems  of  wisdom  gives 

To  Sophocles  or  Plato  ! 

She  joys  to  roam  along  the  streams 
That  flov^  through  classic  ages, 

And  revel  in  the  golden  dreams 
Of  ancient  bards  and  sages. 

To  sigh  or  seem  dejected  w^hile 

She  sits  with  sad  Tibullus  ; 
Or,  in  a  lighter  mood,  to  smile 

With  Terence  or  Catullus. 

To  climb  the  hill  where  grew  the  vine 
That  wreathed  the  brow  of  Bacchus, 

Or  quaff  the  old  Falernian  wine 
With  grim  Horatius  Flaccus  ! 

Or  round  the  walls  of  Troy  to  rove 

And  gaze  with  silent  wonder, 
And  tremble  while  Olympian  Jove 

Hurls  down  his  bolts  of  thunder  ! 

To  weep  while  sadly  pondering  o'er 

The  fate  of  proud  old  Priam. 
(Whose  young  son,  Paris,  was  not  more 

In  love,  I  swear,  than  I  am  !) 


24      MV  LITTLE    CLASSIC  DIVINITY. 

And  when  she  hears  Queen  Dido's  woes, 

To  melt  in  female  pity, 
Or  laugh  while  Perseus  scourges  those 

Who  thronged  Rome's  sinful  city. 

And  yet  for  those  who  sigh  for  her, 
The  wildest  love  revealing, — 

For  those  who'd  gladly  die  for  her. 
She  has  nor  heart  nor  feeling. 

For  though  her  mind,  serene  and  bold, 
Drinks  deep  of  classic  fountains, 

This  maiden's  loveless  heart  is  cold 
As  "  Greenland's  icy  mountains  !  " 

Or  as  the  moon,  which  seems  to  roll 

So  frigidly  above  her  ; 
And  though  I  know  she  has  no  soul, 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  her  ! 

O  Cupid  !  draw  your  keenest  dart. 

Fly  swiftly  on  before  me, 
Transfix  her  callous,  stony  heart, 

And  cause  her  to — adore  me  ! 

February,  1870.  HORACE  MORDAUNT. 


THE  DOG  OF   THE  LOUVRE.  25 


SATISFIED. 

O  QUESTIONING  souI,  be  still  ! 

Calm  these  vain  longings  for  unbounded  lore, 

Which  thy  weak  powers  so  weary  and  perplex ; 

Rest  thee  and  wait  until 

Thy  promised  morning  dawn,  when  thou,  no  more 

Linked  to  this  heavy  clay,  thy  faith  shalt  vex 

With  thy  mysteries  untried  ; 

Thou  shalt  be  satisfied. 
1871. 


THE   DOG  OF  THE   LOUVRE. 

(From  the  French  of  Delarique.) 

With  gentle  tread,  with  uncovered  head, 

Pass  by  the  Louvre  gate, 
Where  buried  lie  the  "  men  of  July," 
And  flowers  are  hung  by  the  passers-by, 

And  the  dog  howls  desolate. 

That  dog  had  fought  in  the  fierce  onslaught, 
Had  rushed  with  his  master  on. 

And  both  fought  well ; 

But  the  master  fell. 
And  behold  the  surviving  one  ! 


26  THE  DOG   OF   THE  LOUVRE, 

By  his  lifeless  clay, 
Shaggy  and  gray, 

His  fellow-warrior  stood  ; 
Nor  moved  beyond. 
But  mingled  fond 

Big  tears  with  his  master's  blood. 


Vigil  he  keeps 

By  those  green  heaps 

That  tell  where  heroes  lie. 
No  passer-by 
Can  attract  his  eye, 

For  he  knows  it  is  not  He  ! 


At  the  dawn,  when  dew 
Wets  the  garlands  new 

That  are  hung  in  this  place  of  mourning 
He  will  start  to  meet 
The  coming  feet 

Of  him  whom  he  dreamt  returning. 


On  the  grave's  wood-cross 
When  the  chaplets  toss. 

By  the  blast  of  midnight  shaken, 
How  he  howleth  !  hark  ! 
From  that  dwelling  dark 

The  slain  he  would  fain  awaken. 


THE  DOG   OF    THE  LOUVRE,  27 

When  the  snow  comes  fast 
On  the  chilly  blast, 

Blanching  the  bleak  church-yard, 
With  limbs  outspread 
On  the  dismal  bed 

Of  his  liege,  he  still  keeps  guard. 


Oft  in  the  night, 
With  main  and  might. 

He  strives  to  raise  the  stone  ; 
Short  respite  takes  : 
*'  If  master  wakes 

He'll  call  me,"  then  sleeps  on. 


Of  bayonet  blades, 
Of  barricades. 

And  guns  he  dreams  the  most ; 
Starts  from  his  dream, 
And  then  would  seem 

To  eye  a  pleading  ghost. 


He'll  linger  there 
In  sad  despair 

And  die  on  his  master's  grave. 
His  home  ? — 'tis  known 
To  the  dead  alone, — 

He's  the  dog  of  the  nameless  brave ! 


o  THE  PROUDEST  LADY, 

Give  a  tear  to  the  dead, 
And  give  some  bread 

To  the  dog  of  the  Louvre  gate  ! 
Where  buried  He  the  men  of  July, 
And  flowers  are  hung  by  the  passers-by, 

And  the  dog  howls  desolate. 

March,  1871.  RALPH  CECIL. 


THE   PROUDEST    LADY. 

The  Queen  is  proud  on  her  throne. 
And  proud  are  her  maids  so  fine  ; 
But  the  proudest  lady  that  ever  was  known 
Is  a  little  lady  of  mine. 

And  oh  !  she  flouts  me,  she  flouts  me, 
And  spurns  and  scorns  and  scouts  me  ; 
Though  I  drop  on  my  knee  and  sue  for  grace, 
And  beg  and  beseech  with  the  saddest  face, 
Still  ever  the  same  she  doubts  me. 

When  she  rides  on  her  nag  away, 

By  park  and  road  and  river, 
In  a  little  hat  so  jaunty  and  gay. 
Oh  !  then  she's  prouder  than  ever  ! 
And  oh  !  what  faces,  what  faces  ! 
What  petulant,  pert  grimaces  ! 
Why,  the  very  pony  prances  and  winks. 
And  tosses  his  head  and  plainly  thinks 
He  may  ape  her  airs  and  graces. 


THE   PROUDEST  LADY.  29 

But  at  times,  like  a  pleasant  tune, 
A  sweeter  mood  o'ertakes  her  ; 
Oh  !  then  she's  sunny  as  skies  of  June, 
And  all  her  pride  forsakes  her. 

Oh  !  she  dances  around  me  so  fairly  ! 
Oh  !  her  laugh  rings  out  so  rarely  ! 
Oh  !  she  coaxes  and  nestles  and  purrs  and  pries 
In  my  puzzled  face  with  her  two  great  eyes, 
And  says,  "  I  love  you  dearly  ! " 

She  is  seven  by  the  calendar — 

A  lily's  almost  as  tall. 
But  oh  !  this  little  lady's  by  far 
The  proudest  lady  of  all. 

It's  her  sport  and  pleasure  to  flout  me. 
To  spurn  and  scorn  and  scout  me  ; 
But  ah  !  I've  a  notion  it's  naught  but  play, 
And  that  say  what  she  will  and  feign  what  she 
may. 
She  can't  well  do  without  me  ! 

Oh  !  the  Queen  is  proud  on  her  throne, 

And  proud  are  her  maids  so  fine  ; 
But  the  proudest  lady  that  ever  was  known 
Is  this  little  lady  of  mine. 

Good  lack  !  she  flouts  me,  she  flouts  me. 
And  spurns  and  scorns  and  scouts  me  ; 
But  ah  !  I've  a  notion  it's  naught  but  play, 
And  that  say  what  she  will  and  feign  what  she 
may, 
She  can't  well  do  without  me  ! 

June,  1871.  WESTWOOD. 


30  HIDDEN  CHIMES. 

HIDDEN  CHIMES. 

RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO   MISS  ,   OF  RICHMOND. 

R.   T.   W.    DUKE,    JR. 

[Scandinavian  traditions  tell  us  that  the  glacier  of  Folge  Fond 
overwhelmed  seven  villages  in  snow  and  ice,  and  yet  on  Christ- 
mas-Day and  the  first  day  of  spring  one  can  hear  the  bells  of 
the  buried  towns  ringing  clearly.] 

Have  you  heard  that  legend  old, 
Strange  legend  !  strangely  told, 

How  years  ago 
A  rushing,  dashing  glacier  hurled 
A  village,  deeply  hurled. 

Under  the  snow  ? 

But  on  the  peaceful  Christmas  morn. 
Day  on  which  our  Lord  was  born, 

Beneath  that  snow 
Can  be  heard  a  mystic  chiming, 
Bells  most  sweetly  chiming. 

Soft  and  low. 

Or  when  the  happy  springtime 
Breaks  through  winter's  frost  and  rime. 

So  this  legend  tells. 
Can  be  heard  the  magic  ringing, 
Joyous,  merry  ringing. 

Of  those  bells. 


HIDDEN  CHIMES,  31 

Like  that  village  swiftly  buried, 
In  icy  regions  deeply  buried, 

Are  some  hearts, 
From  whose  depths  no  gentle  feeling, 
Sacred,  holy  feeling, 

Ever  starts 


Till  some  chord  is  set  in  motion 
That  awakes  some  fond  emotion. 

Which  softly  swells  ; 
And  the  heart  begins  a  chime, 
A  soft,  melodious  chime 

Like  those  bells, 


Which  by  gentle  thoughts  when  bidden. 
Although  long  they  have  been  hidden. 

Arise  once  more, 
And  sound  from  out  their  depths. 
Their  icy,  snowy  depths. 

And  heavenward  soar. 


There  is  not  a  heart  so  deep, 
Where  memories  do  not  sleep 

Which  will  awake 
When  the  proper  chord  is  touched. 
Gently,  softly  touched, 

And  music  make. 


32  "  THE    WEE  LITTLE    THING:' 

There's  no  human  heart  so  cold 
But  sometimes  'twill  unfold, 

And  sweetly  sound 
A  note  that  upward  wells, 
Like  those  mysterious  bells 

Of  Folge  Fond. 

October,  1871.  HeRZOG. 


"THE  WEE  LITTLE  THING." 

WALTER   G.  CHARLTON. 

There's  a  wee  little  thing  in  this  world  of  ours, 
And  it  moveth  and  moveth  the  livelong  day  ; 
And  tho'  the  sun  shines  and  tho'  the  storm  lowers. 
It  clattereth  on  with  its  ceaseless  lay  ; 
Over  peasant  and  king 

Its  spell  it  hath  flung, — 
That  dear  little  thing, 
A  woman's  tongue  ! 

There's  a  wee  little  thing  in  this  world  of  ours. 

And  it  sparkleth  and  sparkleth  the  livelong  day; 
No  dew-drop  that  hangs  on  the  morning  flowers 
Is  so  beauteous  and  bright  as  its  beaming  ray  ; 
No  shield  can  we  bring 

That  its  shaft  can  defy, — 
That  dear  little  thing, 
A  woman's  eye  ! 


ONLY  A   KISS.  ZZ 

There's  a  wee  little  thing  in  this  world  of  ours, 

And  it  throbbeth  and  throbbeth  the  livelong  day; 
And  in  palace  halls,  and  in  leafy  bowers, 
It  holdeth  alike  its  potent  sway  ; 
Bright  joy  can  it  bring, 

Or  deep  sorrow  impart, — 
That  dear  little  thing, 
A  woman's  heart. 

There  are  many  charms  in  this  world  of  ours, 
That  cluster  and  shine  over  Life's  long  day  ; 
The  wealth    of    the    mine,  and    the    statesman's 
powers, 
And  the  laurels  won  in  the  bloody  fray, — 
No  spell  can  they  fling 

That  my  bosom  can  move 
Like  that  witching  thing, 
A  woman's  love  ! 

October,  1871.  IBYCUS,  ESQ. 


ONLY  A  KISS. 

THOMAS   A.    SEDDON. 

Only  one  kiss  !     Ah  !  why  refuse 

To  bless  an  eager  lover  ? 
What  else  those  rosy  lips  should  choose 

I'm  sure  I  can't  discover. 


34  THE  RESTED  HEART. 

The  drifting  cloud-banks  kiss  the  sea, 
Where  foam-tipped  breakers  roar, 

And  ocean's  ripples,  floating  free. 
Kiss  all  her  endless  shore. 

The  sky  of  morning  blushes  deep 
At  the  kiss  of  the  coming  sun  ; 

And  a  blessing  falls  with  the  kiss  of  sleep, 
When  the  weary  day  is  done. 

By  breezes  kissed,  the  floweret  rare 

To  full  perfection  grows  ; 
And  all  that's  fair  in  earth  or  air 

From  the  kiss  of  beauty  flows. 

Then. let  those  lips  where  beauty  sleeps 

To  love's  soft  touch  awaken, 
And  thrill  that  chord  which  silence  keeps 
Till  by  his  presence  shaken. 
February,  1872.  A. 


THE    RESTED    HEART. 

R.    T.    W.    DUKE,    JR. 

Far,  far  from  land  a  lone  bird  flew, 
And  wearied,  wings  its  tiresome  flight; 

No  place  to  rest  came  on  its  view  ; 
There  lay  but  sea  and  sky  in  sight. 


THE  RESTED  HEART.  35 

A  speck  far  in  the  distant  west, 

A  sail  that  closer,  nearer  grew  ; 
The  glad  bird  saw  a  place  of  rest. 

And  toward  the  vessel  swiftly  flew. 

It  lit,  it  breathed,  and  there  awhile 

Forgot  its  cares,  its  weariness ; 
Saw  all  around  in  calmness  smile, 

Saw  none  to  harm,  all  to  caress. 

It  rests ;  then,  ere  it  stretched  its  wings, 
And  bade  the  ship  a  long  adieu. 

In  thanks  the  bird  a  carol  sings. 
Then  homeward  once  again  it  flew. 

And  thus  as  I,  o'er  life's  dark  sea, 
My  humble  course  in  silence  trace, 

A  moment  rested  close  by  thee, — 
Gazed  on  thy  beauteous,  radiant  face, — 

Then  by  thy  smile  refreshed  anew, 

Far  on  I  moved  through  joy  and  pain  ; 

From  rest  to  labor  back  I  flew. 
To  fight  life's  battles  once  again. 

But  ere  I  bid  a  long  farewell, 

Oh  !  take  this  song,  though  poor  it  be. 
To  show  the  thoughts  that  in  me  dwell, 

To  show  my  gratitude  to  thee. 


36  ON    THE   POND. 

And  tho'  our  lives  lie  far  apart, 
Tho'  ne'er  on  earth  we  meet  again. 

Perhaps  it  may  some  joy  impart 

To  know  that  thou  hast  freed  from  pain 

Some  few  short  moments  of  my  life  ; 

And  as  the  ship  the  bird  gave  rest, 
Some  hours  hast  given  free  from  strife. 

Some  cares  hast  driven  from  my  breast. 

And  now  all's  past,  but  not  forgot ; 

And  tho*  those  hours  return,  oh,  never, 
Leave  they  in  darkness  one  bright  spot 
Which  cheers  me  on  and  stays  forever. 
February,  1872.  HeRZOG. 


ON    THE    POND. 

WALTER   G.    CHARLTON. 

The  diamond  stars  were  gleaming 

Through  the  silver-frosted  stems  ; 
On  the  icy  crystals  forming, 

Sparkling  like  a  thousand  gems  ; 
And  the  fairy  host  of  winter 

Hushed  the  scene  with  beauty's  wand, 
On  that  cold  December  evening 

We  went  skating  on  the  pond. 


SHE  HAS  DRIFTED  AWAY.  37 

Laughing  eyes  were  peeping  slyly 

From  the  folds  of  wrappers  warm  ; 
Merry  voices  rang  out  gayly, 

Making  heart-aches  with  their  charm  ; 
Graceful  forms  were  moving  lightly, 

But  my  eyes,  with  glances  fond, 
Sought  alone  the  sylph-like  graces 

Of  my  partner  on  the  pond. 

That  night's  splendor  faded 

Like  some  bright  poetic  thought, 
But  our  hearts  have  kept  the  lesson 

That  its  silent  glory  taught  ; 
For  the  love  we  swore  each  other, 

As  we  felt  the  mutual  bond, 
Twines  its  silken  folds  as  tightly 

As  when  skating  on  the  pond. 

February,  1872. 


SHE   HAS    DRIFTED   AWAY. 

TO    MISS    A.     m'l.  ,    OF    ST.    LOUIS. 

EDWIN  JACOBS. 
L 

She  has  drifted  away  to  Heaven's  shore, 
To  the  shadowy  home  of  the  seraph  land. 

And  the  white  sails  flashed  as  her  bark  went  o'er; 
We  saw  as  we  wept  by  the  shining  strand. 


3^  SHE  HAS  DRIFTED  AWAY. 

Oh  !  our  thoughts  were  full  of  the  after-years, 
As  she  smiled   her  adieu  o'er  the  dark  wave's 
crest, 
And  our  eyes  drooped  downward  'mid  sorrow's 
tears. 
As  she  drifted  away — away  to  her  rest. 

II. 

She  drifted  away  ere  her  girlhood's  morn 

Wore  on  to  the  beauty  of  blushing  day — 
Like  a  tender  violet  rudely  torn 

From  the  flower-crowned  sceptre  of  rosy  May  ; 
Ere  her  young  heart's  freshness  grew  sore  and  dim, 

Or  the  cherub  of  peace  ceased  to  gladden  her 
breast, 
Ere  wild  woe  had  entered  Hope's  dying  hymn, 

She  drifted  away — away  to  her  rest. 

III. 

She  drifted  away  when  autumn  came, 

With  brilliant  hues  of  crimson  and  gold, — 
When  the  forests  were  lit  with  their  wings  of  flame, 

And  the  wandering  winds  blew  drear  and  cold, — 
With  her  soft  eyes  bright  as  empyreal  fires, 

And  her  white  hands  folded  across  her  breast, 
To  the  mild  sweet  music  of  angels'  lyres, 

She  has  drifted  away  to  her  rest. 

October,  1872.  JUGATINUS. 


THE  BIG  HORN  OF   THE  RANGE.      39 
THE    BIG    HORN    OF    THE    RANGE. 

GOODWIN   H.  WILLIAMS. 

If  you'll  listen,  fellow-students,  to  the  tale  which 

I  relate, 
You  will  know  as  much  as  I  can  show  about  the 

facts  I  state  ; 
While  other  poets  sing  of  Love  and  many  things 

as  strange, 
I  have  taken  up  the  subject  of  "  The  Big  Horn 

of  the  Range." 

I. 

It   is   a   mammoth  "  dyking  horn,"  five   feet   and 

more  in  height, 
A    patriarch  'mid    smaller  horns,  v^hich   meaner 

souls  delight, — 
The   tinners   bold    of    Charlottesville,    yes,    every 

mother's  son, 
Combined  their  art  to  build  it,  and  at  last  their 

vv^ork  is  done. 
'Twas  purchased  by  a  Sophomore,  who  "  bunked  " 

on  Monroe  Hill, 
Who  practised  on  it  night  and  day,  until  it  made 

him  ill  ; 
From  mouth  to  mouth  and  hand  to  hand  its  owner- 
ship did  change, 
Until  at  last  'twas  settled  as  "  The  Big  Horn  of 

the  Range." 


40      THE  BIG  HORN  OF   THE  RANGE, 

II. 

One  night  when  all  the  world  was  still,  and  silence 

hovered  round, 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  flow  and  fill,  was  heard  an 

awful  sound  ; 
So  wild  and  stern,  yet  full  and  clear,  it  rode  upon 

the  blast, 
That  Monticello  caught  it  up  and  back  the  echo 

cast. 
There  w^as  a  freshman   chap  who  lived  at  No.  lo 

Carr's  Hill,— 
He   thought    it   was    the    judgment    trump    and 

went  and  made  his  will  ; 
But  while  he  strove  his  scattered  wits  in  order  to 

arrange, 
A  friend  rushed  in  and  told  him  'twas  *•  The  Big 

Horn  of  the  Range." 


III. 


A  "  high-toned   calicoist  '*  sat  upon  a  cushioned 

seat, 
Beside  him  leans  his  "  Dulcie  "  dear,  so  young  and 

fair  and  sweet  ; 
His  heart  was  pierced  by  Cupid's  shaft,  and  as  he 

"made  his  speech," 
Before  she  softly  whispered  '•  Yes,"  there  came 

that  awful  screech. 


THE  BIG  HORN  OF   THE  RANGE.      41 

The  lady  fainted  straight  away,  her  father  entered 

quick, 
The  "  calicoist "  seized  his  hat  and  swiftly  "  cut 

his  stick," 
And  all  that  night  at  Ambie's,  'mid  his  frequent 

draughts  of  "  corn," 
These  words  alone  were  audible,  "  Dog  gone  that 

big  tin  horn  !  " 


MORAL. 

So  all   ye  youthful  freshmen  chaps,  who  are  so 

jolly  green, 
Don't  think  that  nothing  else  exists  except  what 

you  have  seen  ; 
And  you,  ye  "  calicoist  men,"  who  cut  so  great  a 

dash. 
Rely  on  something  else  besides  a  *•  hard  cheek  " 

or  moustache, — 
Some  men  don't  know  the  reason  why  the  "  Tem- 
perance "  bestows 
By    virtue    of    its    membership    so    jolly   red    a 

nose, — 
Why,  'tis  the  "nature  of  the  beast,"  and  it  will 

never  change 
Until  the  echoes  hear  no  more  "  The  Big  Horn  of 

the  Range." 
December,  1872.  **  CaUSTICUS." 


42  TO  A   MOSQUITO. 

TO   A    MOSQUITO. 


AFTER   BURNS. 


L.  V.  MILLER. 


Ye  here  again  !  ye  lang-legg'd  deev'l  ! 
Ye  bizzin',  bummin'  imp  o'  evil — 
Haud  in  yer  gab  and  cantin'  snur'l, 

Or  gin'  the  wa' 
I'll  plaister  ye  if  ye're  no'  ceev'l, 

And  stop  yer  jaw. 

What  brings  ye  here  ?     I'd  like  to  ken, — 
To  bild  and  pester  honest  men, 
To  gar  them  think  their  latter  en* 

Is  drawin'  near, 
And  scart  and  claw  like  some  auld  hen. 

And  curse  and  swear  ? 

Gae,  tak'  that  music  o'  the  de'il, 

And  serenade  some  ither  chiel — 

Some  tough-skinned  wretch  that  canna  feel 

Your  cursed  claws. 
Or  sinner  that  has  fatten'd  well 

On  broken  laws. 

Gang  ow're  the  road,  and  ring  the  bell — 
Ye'll  find  a  rascal  like  yersel' — 


TO  A   MOSQUITO.  43 

A  politician — ^jag  him  well^ 

And  sting  him  sair — 
He's  sic  a  backbiter  himsel* 

Ye'll  ne'er  bild  mair. 

Or  there's  an  auld  maid  doon  the  street — 
Ye'll  find  her  tough,  but  guid  to  eat — 
Ye'll  easy  ken  her  when  ye  meet — 

She's  o'  your  trade  ; 
O'  tea  and  scandal  strong  and  sweet 

Her  bluid  is  made. 

Jist  tak*  a  pattern  by  the  flea, 
That  has  his  bite,  the'  waits  a  wee 
Afore  he  wets  the  ither  ee* 

Or  loups  aboot ; 
And,  puir  thing,  's  aye  prepar'd  to  dee 

When  he's  fand  oot. 

Or  else  the  decent,  saucy  bug, 

Wha  keeps  himsel'  sae  dower  and  snug, 

An's  no  aye  roarin'  in  yer  lug 

His  blasted  airs. 
But  jist  lies  doon  like  any  dug 

An'  says  his  pray'rs. 

But  ye,  ye  grinnin',  sneakin'  braggart, 
Ye  greedy,  ill-far'd,  suckin'  blackguard, 


44  THE   SUN-. 

Wid  body  skinny,  lang-,  and  haggard, 

And  bluidy  fang, 
For  a*  yer  boastin*,  blovvin'  swagger, 

I'll  stop  yer  sang. 

So  dinna  fash  yersel'  to  stay. 

And  waste  yer  time  wi'  me  the  day — 

I  tell  ye,  freen*,  jist  gang  yer  way, 

Or  mine  yer  heed. 
Ae  skelp  frae  me  wad  stop  yer  pay 

And  strike  ye  deed. 

December,  1872.  INNIS   MORE. 


THE  SUN. 


[Imitated  from  certain  verses  by  William  Wirt  Palmer  in 
The  Week. 

A  lucubration  of  the  physico-philosophical  muse,  intended  to 
illustrate  the  hypothesis  of  Laplace,  which  is  to  theologians  a 
stumbling-block  and  to  idiots  foolishness.] 

Through  the  misty  void  of  the  formless  waste 

The  arms  of  night  were  thrown. 
And  the  pulsing  wave  flew  on  apace 

To  find  its  future  home  ; 
My  glorious  globe  soon  closed  its  orb, 

My  eternal  race  began, 
And  in  my  whirls  I  scattered  worlds 

And  formed  a  home  for  man. 


THE   SUN.  45 

The  fair  earth  grew,  as  'round  it  flew, 

The  darling  of  mine  eyes  ; 
I  painted  its  flowers  and  tinged  its  bowers, 

And  flushed  its  gorgeous  skies  ; 
I  wrapped  the  cloud  like  a  royal  shroud 

About  the  mountain's  pride, 
And  made  the  cloud  fill  the  clear  springs  of  the 
rill 

That  silvered  the  mountain-side. 


In  the  crystal  heart  of  the  diamond  I  dart 

A  beam  of  shivering  light. 
And  mine  'tis  to  enter  the  red  ruby's  centre 

And  kindle  a  fire  there  bright. 
The  opal's  soft  shimmer  is  naught  but  my  glimmer, 

And  the  pearl  in  the  garnish  of  queens 
Owes  its  tender  haze  to  my  radiant  blaze 

That  gleams  in  the  emerald  greens. 

I  raised  the  clear  water  that  tumbles  in  laughter    ^ 

From  the  crags  of  the  mountain  hoar, 
And   mine  is  the   power  that  hath  wealth  for  its 
dower, 

And  feeds  both  the  rich  and  the  poor. 
And  the  vales  that  are  rife  with  the  vigor  of  life 

Draw  their  force  from  the  warmth  of  my  breast, 
That  lends  tenderest  dyes   to  the   fair  maiden's 
eyes, 

And  spreads  in  all  nature  a  feast. 


4^  LONG  AGO, 

Even  genius  doth  owe  to  my  power  its  glow : 

Life  itself  finds  its  source  in  my  heart  ; 
And  all  that  I  cherish,  without  me  would  perish, — 

I  freely  give  each  one  his  part. 
Some  day  the  fair  errant  shall  seek  out  her  parent. 

And  my  bosom  once  more  shall  receive 
To  its  ardent  heart  the  courser  fleet 

That  now  on  its  beauty  doth  live. 

March,  1873. 


LONG   AGO. 

C.    B.    SINCLAIR. 
I. 


There's  a  beautiful  isle  in  the  Long  Ago, 

All  flooded  with  golden  light ; 
And  a  river  that  glides  by  the  magic  shore. 

Whose  waters  are  wondrous  bright ; 
And  a  bark  that  moves  with  snowy  sails. 

And  the  music  of  silver  oar. 
That  carries  us  back  to  the  shining  gates 

Of  that  beautiful  Past  once  more  ! 
And  every  heart  holds  some  sweet  dream 

Of  that  beautiful  Long  Ago. 

IL 

There  were   bright  hopes    nursed  in   that   Long 
Ago; 
Fair  flowers  have  perished  there ; 


LONG  AGO,  47 

And  the  walls  of  the  beautiful  Past  are  hung 

With  pictures  bright  and  fair  ; 
And,  oh  !  there  is  soon  for  our  feet  to  tread 

The  path  of  these  by-gone  years  ! 
There  are  joys  that  bloom  in  Memory's  field, 

And  a  fount  for  our  bitter  tears  ; 
And  that  fount  is  filled  with  hallowed  tears 

We  wept  in  that  Long  Ago  ! 

III. 

There  are  happy  dreams  the  heart  holds  dear — 

Sweet  dreams  of  Long  Ago  ! 
And  sacred  tears  for  the  perished  joys 

That  will  return  no  more  ; 
And  thus  in  the  tangled  web  of  life 

We  weave  our  smiles  and  tears, 
And  cling  to  the  holy  memories 

That  hang  around  departed  years  ! 
Ah  !  drop  the  silken  curtain  now 

Of  the  beautiful  Long  Ago  !  * 


IV. 

Shut  out  the  light  of  those  vanished  years, 
Close  the  door  of  the  Past  again, 

And  hush  the  yearning  thoughts  that  rise 
To  give  the  bosom  pain. 

Ah  !  roll  the  heavy  stone  against 
That  sepulchre — the  Heart ! 


4^  A   BEAUX    YEUX. 

Why  should  these  buried  forms  again 

To  life  and  beauty  start  ? 
The  Future  may  hold  some  dream  as  bright 

As  those  of  Long  Ago  ! 

May,  1873. 


A    BEAUX   YEUX. 

R.    T.    W.   DUKE,   JR. 

*'  To  bonny  eyes,"  the  toast  went  'round, 

With  mirth,  and  wine,  and  laughter. 
When  merry  jest  and  din  had  drown'd 

All  thoughts  of  sad  hereafter. 
"  To  bonny  eyes," — and  then  I  thought 
Of  hers  I  loved,  with  feeling  fraught. 
From  whence  the  soul,  so  fair  and  true, 
Shone  forth  as  from  deep  seas  the  blue. 

"  To  bonny  eyes," — it  was  the  time 

When  mirth  and  madness  soaring, 
With  gay  wild  jest  and  wilder  rhyme, 

Set  all  the  table  roaring  ; 
Amid  the  loud  resounding  glee 
A  vision  fair  came  back  to  me, 
A  sweet  pure  face  and  bonny  eyes. 
Like  sunshine  seen  thro'  azure  skies. 


A   BEAUX    YEUX.  49 

*'To  bonny  eyes," — each  tongue  was  fraught 

With  eager  lover's  praises, 
While  I  alone  sat  still  and  thought 

Of  her  with  eyes  like  daisies  ; 
And  as  the  brimming  cup  went  'round, 
With  song,  and  jest,  and  merry  sound, 
I,  of  the  joyous,  laughing  crowd, 
Alone  pledged  not  her  eyes  aloud. 

I  deemed  that  on  these  lips  of  mine 

*Twas  heartless  desecration 
To  blend  her  pure  sweet  name  and  wine 

In  heedless  dissipation  ; 
And  so  amidst  the  din  and  riot, 
My  tongue  alone  of  all  kept  quiet, 
And  from  my  chair  I  did  not  rise 
To  pledge  aloud  her  bonny  eyes. 

But  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  said 

A  thousand  times,  "  God  bless  her  ! " 
And  with  mute  lip  and  bended  head. 

Prayed  angel  hands  caress  her. 
And  keep  her  soul  as  pure  and  fair 
As  lilies  born  'neath  Summer's  air, 
And  make  me  fit  some  time  to  win 
Her  guileless  heart,  so  free  from  sin. 

God  grant  that  often,  as  to-night, 

When  idly  bent  and  sinning, 
Those  bonny  eyes  may  rise  in  sight. 

So  holy,  true,  and  winning, 

4 


5°  THE    CAVALIER. 

And  with  one  gentle,  loving  glance. 
Awake  me  from  vain  folly's  trance, 
And  then  in  heart  oft  o'er  and  o'er 
I'll  pledge  "  to  bonny  eyes  "  e'er  more. 
1872.  Zete. 

THE   CAVALIER. 

GOODWIN   H.    WILLIAMS. 

Hurrah  !     There's  fever  in  my  blood  ;  I  feel  the 

sparkling  wine 
Like  lightning  coursing  through  my  veins — brave 

vintage  of  the  Rhine  ! 
My  heated  temples  throb  and  beat ;  the  sparkle  in 

mine  eye 
Is  like  the  eagle's  'mid  the  clouds  when  first  he 

soars  on  high. 
My  charger  neighs — I  hear  his  hoofs,  like  thunder, 

beat  the  earth. 
Ho  !  bring  my  spurs  of  Milan  steel  and  tighten  up 

each  girth  ; 
I've  far  to  ride  and  much  to  dare  before  the  day 

comes  in — 
Here's  one  more  beaker  to  King  Charles,  and  may 

the  Good  Cause  win  ! 

The  chill  night  wind  must  dry  the  dew  upon  my 

heated  brow  ; 
I've  neither  home  nor  kith  nor  kin  upon  the  broad 

earth  now. 


THE    CAVALIER.  51 

My   old   gray   tower   is  sacked  and    burned,  my 

friends  and  kinsmen  slain, 
And  naught  is  left  but  my  good  sword  a  heritage 

to  gain. 
Whene'er  I  see  that  ruined  tower  and  desolate 

hearthstone, 
I  vow  to  heaven  for  every  pang,  a  Roundhead's 

dying  groan — 
And  well  they  know  I've  kept  my  oath.     My  merry 

men,  fall  in  ! 
Oiie  ringing  cheer  for  brave  King  Charles,  and 

may  the  Good  Cause  win  ! 


My  vengeance,  like  the  levin  brand,  goes  rushing 

through  their  camp  ; 
The   death    lights    flame    across   the    moors    and 

flicker  to  our  tramp — 
For  hell  holds  revel  high  to-night ;  my  broadsword 

in  its  sheath 
Grows  heated  like  my  lava  blood  to  carve  a  feast 

for  Death. 
And  we  sweep  on,  and  on,  and  on,  till  like  a  mighty 

flood 
We  burst  upon  the  sleeping  foe  and  cool  our  steel 

in  blood  ; 
And  while  the  raging  fight  goes  on,  above  the 

battle's  din 
We  hear,  "Hurrah  for  brave  King  Charles,  and 

may  the  Good  Cause  win  ! " 


52  TO-MORROW  MORNING. 

Our  waving  plumes  through  hall  and  camp,  our 
broadswords  true  and  strong, 

Our  King,  our  Country,  and  ourFaith,  alone,  to  us 
belong  ; 

We  have  not  much  to  lose,  I  ween,  by  war's  turmoil 
and  strife. 

For  Beauty's  witching  spell  is  o'er,  and  all  we  ask 
is — Lite. 

Our  chargers  are  our  only  care,  our  joy  the  mid- 
night ride. 

The  headlong,  dashing,  crushing  charge,  and  — 
naught  on  earth  beside. 

And  when  the  tide  goes  o'er  our  heads  and  heav- 
enly joys  begin, 

We'll  pray,  "  God  save  our  brave  King  Charles, 
and  may  the  Good  Cause  win." 


TO-MORROW    MORNING. 

A.  C.  GORDON. 

A  LITTLE  prattler,  whose  young  life 

Is  just  now  at  its  dawning, 
When  questioned  of  a  future  hope. 

Makes  answer,  "  Morrer-mornin'." 

**  When  will  you  be  a  lady  proud, 

Poor  waxen  dollies  scorning. 
And  have  as  playthings  diamonds  bright  ?  ' 

Says,  tersely,  "  Morrer-mornin'." 


AN  OLD  AIR.  S3 

*'  When  will  you  ride  in  coach  and  four, 
No  broken  broomstick  mourning  ?  " 

With  brightening  eyes  she  quick  replies, 
"Sometime — to-morrer-mornin'." 

With  her,  indeed,  'tis  almost  one, — 
The  gloaming  and  the  dawning, — 

A  few  short  hours  of  happy  sleep 
Divide  her  night  and  morning. 

To  older  heads  than  her's  the  thought 
Sends  comfort,  and  yet  warning  ; 

The  wall  between  our  life  and  death 
Will  fall — to-morrow  morning. 


1875- 


G. 


AN   OLD   AIR. 

R.  T.  W.  DUKE,  JR. 

That  simple  air  you  just  have  played 
So  tenderly,  my  dearest  maid, 

Has  set  my  heart  retracing 
The  memories  of  a  vanished  June, 
When  last  I  listened  to  the  tune, 
Which  then  from  lips  as  red  as  thine 
Stole  softly  in  this  heart  of  mine, 

Each  grief  with  joy  replacing. 


54  AN  OLD  AIR, 

It  was  in  summers  long  ago, 

When  my  young  life  first  felt  the  glow 

Of  love  I  just  had  spoken, 
That  one  whose  voice,  to  music  set. 
In  strains  that  haunt  my  mem'ry  yet, 
Sang  to  me  sweetly  that  same  air, 
And  touched  her  harp  with  fingers  fair. 

Until  a  string  was  broken. 

Then  half  in  laughter,  half  in  fear, 
Her  eyes  suggestive  of  a  tear, 

"  'Tis  thus,"  she  cried,  "oh,  lover  ! 
My  heart  amidst  its  joys  would  break, 
Didst  thou  my  fond  love  once  forsake  ; 
Nor  could  some  skilful  master-hand 
Again  unite  its  severed  band, 

Or  its  lost  song  recover  ! " 

Ah  me  !     The  flowers  of  many  a  June 
Have  hid  her  grave,  and  still  that  tune 

Old  mem'ries  will  awaken. 
And  I  have  learned  since  then  to  jest, 
And  hide  a  sorrow  in  my  breast — 
To  cover  close  life's  vacant  spot. 
And  suffer  still  man's  saddest  lot — 

To  feel  myself  forsaken. 

And  I  have  learned  as  well  this  thing  : 
That  hearts  break  not  as  snaps  a  string. 
Without  a  moment's  warning  ; 


CHATEAUX  EN  ESPAGNE.  55 

But  rather,  as  years  onward  flow, 
They  sound  each  note  of  gladness  low — 
Until  the  last,  so  faint,  doth  seem 
Like  distant  music  in  a  dream. 

Which  melts  to  naught  at  morning. 

March,  1875.  ZETE. 


CHATEAUX   EN    ESPAGNE. 

A.   C.   GORDON. 

"Castles  in  Spain."     No  yellow  gold 

Weighs  heavy  on  my  hands  ; 
And  yet  I  have  a  wealth  untold — 

Castles  in  foreign  lands; 
High  castles,  reared  with  cunning  skill, 

These  all  my  wealth  contain. 
And  oh  !  what  riches  they  that  fill 

My  grand  "chateaux  in  Spain." 

For  all  about  their  gardens  gay 

Rare  flowers  are  blossoming, 
And  roses  all  the  live-long  day 

A  heavy  fragrance  fling 
Upon  the  balmy  summer  air. 

And  on  grass-plots  they  rain 
White  showers  of  petals, — over  there 

In  my  •*  chateaux  in  Spain." 


5^  CHATEAUX  EN  ESPAGNE. 

'Tis  only  there  that  my  fond  breast 

Hath  gained  its  perfect  bliss  ; 
'Tis  only  there — love  all  confessed — 

Red  rosebud  lips  I  kiss. 
'Tis  only  there  a  sovereign  king 

Of  dreamy  eyes  I  reign  ; 
Ah  !  love  hath  sweetest  blossoming 

In  castles  built  "  in  Spain." 

'Tis  only  there  my  eager  palm 

Caresseth  raven  hair  ; 
'Tis  only  there  that  Gilead's  balm 

Lives  in  the  enchanted  air  ; 
'Tis  only  there  that  dreamy  eyes 

Look  love  to  mine  again, 
And  warm  lips  whisper  soft  replies 

In  my  "  chateaux  in  Spain." 

Blissful  enough  the  hours,  I  ween, 

Lived  in  the  enchanted  air  ; 
Lovely  the  fairy  form  and  mien. 

The  eyes,  the  raven  hair 
Close  braided  to  the  dainty  head, — 

But  peace  !  why  thus  profane 
With  words  the  happy  life  I've  led 

In  my  "  chateaux  in  Spain  "  ? 

When  my  high  castles  vanish  all 

Into  their  former  air, 
The  fragile  fabric's  ruthless  fall 

Fills  all  my  heart  with  care ; 


MY   TRUE-LOVE' S    WEALTH,  57 

But  soon  the  care  is  gone,  for  Love 

Binds  fancy  in  her  chain, 
And  rears  once  more — earth's  woes  above — 

New  castles  "out  in  Spain." 

April,  1875.  ^ 


MY   TRUE-LOVE'S   WEALTH. 

My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say, 
But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay  ; 
For  she  hath  wealth  of  nut-brown  hair 

That  falleth  far  her  waist  below, 
And  clusters  round  her  shoulders  fair, 

Like  shadow  upon  driven  snow. 

My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say, 
But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay ; 
For  she  hath  eyes  so  soft  and  bright, 

Such  depth  of  love  within  them  lies 
That  stars  in  heaven  would  lose  their  light 

When  placed  beside  my  true-love's  eyes. 

My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say, 
But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay ; 
For  oh  !  she  hath  such  dainty  hands. 

So  snowy  white,  so  wee  and  small, 
That  had  I  wealth  of  Ophir's  lands. 

For  one  of  them  I'd  give  it  all. 


58  MV   TRUE-LOVE'S    WEALTH. 

My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say. 
But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay ; 
For  sure  she  hath  a  face  so  fair, — 

Such  winsome  light  around  it  plays, 
For  worldly  wealth  I  nothing  care, 

So  I  can  look  upon  her  face. 


My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say, 
But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay  ; 
For  endless  wealth  of  mind  hath  she, 

A  heart  so  gentle,  true,  and  pure. 
Her  riches,  they  as  countless  be 

As  shells  upon  the  ocean's  shore. 


My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say. 

But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay  ; 

The  sweet-brier  bough  hath  less  of  grace, 

And  on  wild  violets  when  she  treads, 
They  turn  to  look  into  her  face, 

And  scarcely  bow  their  tiny  heads. 


My  true-love  hath  no  wealth,  they  say, 
But  when  they  do  I  tell  them  nay  ; 
For  oh  !  she  hath  herself,  you  see, 
And  that  is  more  than  worlds  to  me. 

December,  1875.  ^ ^~ 


FOR  A   LADY    WEARING  A    LILY.      59 
FOR   A    LADY   WEARING   A    LILY. 

R.    T.    W.    DUKE,    JR. 

The  sound  of  merry  feet  within  the  hall, 
And  music  sighing  as  for  wasted  hours, 

The  murmurous  tinkle  of  the  fountain's  fall. 
The  wafted  sweetness  of  exotic  flowers. 

All,  all,  were  in  the  house,  and  midst  them  there, 

My  lady  with  a  lily  in  her  hair. 

A  pure  white  flower  which  did  seem  to  pale 
With  sorrow  simply,  that  its  lustrous  sheen 

To  match  the  ivory  of  her  brow  did  fail. 
And  seen  beside  her  beauty  was  unseen  ; 

As  pearl's  soft  splendors,  midst  bright  diamonds 
set. 

Are  e'en  unnoticed,  though  all  beauteous  yet. 

An  emblem  of  the  truth,  and  worn  by  one 
Whose  life  could  fitly  all  its  types  express  ; 

The  beauty  of  whose  soul  as  far  outshone 
The  radiance  even  of  her  loveliness. 

As  her  own  matchless  face,  "divinely  fair," 

Outshone  the  lily  in  her  sunny  hair. 

For  midst  earth's  follies,  as  they  tempting  lure. 
Untarnished  by  their  touch,  or  sland'rous  breath, 

She  walks,  contrasted  with  our  sin,  as  pure 
As  lilies  laid  upon  the  breast  of  death  ; 


6o  TRANSFORMA  TIONS. 

And  sweet,  calm  thoughts  dwell   round  her,  and 

abide 
With  those  who  walk  life's  pathways  by  her  side. 

Ere  long  the  merry  feet  must  weary  tread 
In  sterner  marches,  'gainst  an  angry  storm  ; 

The  flowers  all  wither  ere  the  night  is  dead. 
And  time  spares  not  the  loveliest  face  or  form  ; 

Yet  in  my  heart  a  vision  lingers  e'er, 

My  lady  with  a  lily  in  her  hair. 

God  grant  her  life  a  melody  may  flow, 

In  rhythmic  measures  set  to  notes  of  glee. 

Without  a  discord,  as  the  years  shall  grow, 
Until  the  years  themselves  shall  cease  to  be. 

And  then,  beyond  Time's  borders,  may  she  wear 

A  fadeless  crown  of  lilies  in  her  hair  ! 

February,  1876.  ZETE. 


TRANSFORMATIONS. 

A.    C.    GORDON. 

It  is  a  gala  night,  and  I, 
Among  the  crowd,  not  of  it. 

Sit  dumb  in  loud-mouthed  revelry 
And  watch  the  eyes  that  love  it. 


TRA  NSFORMA  TIONS.  6 1 

Upon  the  pulsing  summer  air 

The  weird  waltz-music  quivers, 
Whose  throbbings  to  my  spirit  bear 

The  flow  of  rushing  rivers. 

To  long-slept  fancies  it  gives  new  birth, 

To  dreams  that  a  dead  past  cherished  ; 
New  fragrance  to  blossoming  flowers  of  earth, 

Whose  beauty  erewhile  perished. 
And  to  visions  of  bygone  summer  niglits, 

With  their  star-beams  all  a-quiver, 
And  radiant  faces  and  blessed  lights, 

That  have  died  from  earth  forever. 

Now  riseth  some  form  of  the  old  Romance, 

Some  song  rings  soft  and  tender ; 
Cometh  some  duchess  of  feudal  France, 

Some  king  in  his  purple  splendor. 
But  over  them  all  an  Undine  face 

Smileth  or  weepeth  ever. 
Where  a  lithe  form  moves  in  its  elfin  grace  ; 

And  I  hear  the  Danube  river. 

The  wail  of  the  music,  the  faint  perfumes. 

The  flashing  of  wondrous  faces, 
The  shimmer  of  lace  and  the  wealtli  of  blooms 

Which  beauty's  proud  form  graces, 
I  note,  but  one  only  mine  eyes  pursue, 

There's  another  arm  about  her, — 
I  know  she's  as  pure  as  the  virgin  dew, 

And  I  never  dream  to  doubt  her. 


62  TRANSFORMA  TIONS. 

When  the  dance-music  ends,  and  when 

The  billowy  dance  is  ended, 
In  my  heart  the  '*  Danube's  "  melting  strains 

With  her  fairy  form  are  blended  ; 
Ever  I  hear  the  pleasant  sound 

Of  the  rushing  river  water, 
Till  she  seems  to  me,  in  her  lissome  grace, 

Some  Erl-King's  Undine  daughter. 

Little  I  heed  the  babbling  crowd, 

And  their  light  words  lightly  spoken  ; 
I  watch  the  gleam  in  her  changeful  eyes, 

And  take  it  as  a  token. 
The  Erl-King's  daughter  glides  away 

With  the  hush  of  the  swirling  river, 
Her  dark  eyes  change  into  burning  stars 

That  glow  in  heaven  forever. 

The  fantasie  fades.     Once  more  she  seems 

But  a  fickle  fashion's  creature  ; 
I  only  know,  out  of  all  that  throng, 

Her  woman's  tender  nature  ; 
I  only  see  the  love  and  trust 

Concealed  'neath  her  careless  seeming, 
The  wealth  that  her  happy  young  heart  holds  ; 

And  so — I  go  on  dreaming. 

When  she  passes,  a  perfume  scents  the  air 
With  the  fragrance  of  her  kisses  ; 

It  comes  from  the  jasmine  flower  that  lies 
Asleep  in  her  sheeny  tresses  ; 


''  MEIN  LIE B  CHEN r  6$ 

And  a  spray  of  the  snowy  jasmine  rests 

Upon  her  heaving  bosom, — 
As  I  catch  the  breath  of  the  odorous  flowers 

She  seems  a  jasmine  blossom. 

Again  the  music.     Again  I  hear 

The  sound  of  the  river  water  ; 
I  see  as  before  the  Undine  face 

Of  the  Erl-King's  elfin  daughter  ; 
Her  eyes  wear  the  lustre  of  Paradise  stars, 

White  jasmines  twine  about  her  ; 
Her  heart  beats  close  to  another's  now, 

Yet  I  never  dream  to  doubt  her. 
May,  1876.  X. 


"MEIN    LIEBCHEN." 

A   SERENADE. 

C.  W.  R.  SAVAGE. 

Awake  !  for  the  moonbeams 
That  rest  on  thy  pillow, 
And  bathe  in  thy  tresses  of  soft  yellow  gold, 
Are  love's  sweetest  heralds, 
And  to  thee  shall  whisper 
The  story,  dear  Gretchen,  I  often  have  told. 
Oh,  list,  for  they  tell  of  a  lover  so  true — 
Ach,  du  Liebchen, 
Ach,  du  Diebchen 
Meines  Herzens  Ruh'  ! 


64  AMOR  MANET. 

Come,  open  thy  casement — 
The  song  of  thy  minstcel 
Shall  link  with  the  present  the  dreams  of  the  past. 
Oh,  list  to  love's  pleading, 
Leave  not  my  heart  bleeding, 
Come,  open  thy  casement,  the  night's  dying  fast. 
Why  hide  from  thy  lover  thy  eyes'  tender  blue  ? 
Ach,  du  Liebchen, 
Ach,  du  Diebchen 
Meines  Herzens  Ruh' ! 

Oh,  come,  while  with  fragrance 
The  night's  dewy  zephyrs 
Are  wreathing  the  fiow'rets  with  orient  pearls. 
Oh,  come,  ere  in  roseate 
Tints  of  the  morning 
The  day-god  his  glorious  banner  unfurls  ! 
Come  thou  to  my  heart,  as  to  night  comes  the  dew, 
Ach,  du  Liebchen, 
Ach,  du  Diebchen 
Meines  Herzens  Ruh'  ! 
November,  1876.  ReaVEL. 


AMOR   MANET. 

R.   T.    W.    DUKE,    JR. 

Ah  !     Well-a-day  ! 
The  sweetest  melody 


'' WHERE  V  65 

Dies  out  loo  soon  ; 

Heigh-ho  ! 

The  roses'  glow 
Fades  with  June. 

Alas  !  alas  ! 

Our  weariest  moments  pass 

Too  swiftly  by  ; 

Ah,  me  ! 

All  joys  that  be, 
Be  but  to  die. 

Yet  love  still  stays. 
E'en  as  in  pristine  days, 
Though  all  in  vain  ; 

And  oh  ! 

Its  joy  and  woe 
E'er  remain. 
Charlottesville,  Va.,  November,  1876.  ZeTE. 


"WHERE?" 

C.    W.    R.    SAVAGE. 

I  STOOD  where  robed  priest  did  chant 
In  mournful  notes  a  solemn  prayer  ; 

Where  swelled  majestic  organ  tones 
And  fragrant  incense  filled  the  air  ; 

5 


66  "  cherries:' 

Where  all-resplendent  altars  shone 

In  light  than  earthly  light  more  fair ; 
I  lowly  bowed  and  tried  to  pray. 

My  soul  refused  its  duty  !     "  Where, 
Where  shall  I  seek  my  God  ?  "  I  cried. 

An  angel  answered  my  despair: 
"  Erect  a  temple  in  thy  heart, 

And  worship  thy  Creator  there  /" 
November,  1876.  REAVEL. 


"CHERRIES." 

C.    W.    R.    SAVAGE. 

I. 

In  his  easy  chair  reclining, 

Sat  Sir  Tristien,  young  and  fair  ; 

Never  thought  he  of  repining, 
All  his  visions  light  as  air. 

II. 

Up  the  foot-path,  through  the  gateway, 
Up  the  stately  marble  stair. 
Sunburned  hands  and  feet  all  bare, 

Came  a  little  peasant  maiden, 
Blushing  'neath  her  golden  hair. 


**  CHERRIESr  67 

III. 

"Cherries  ?  "  said  the  little  maiden. 

•'  No,  begone  ! "  Sir  Tristien  cried. 
"  Cherries  !     Ah,  my  little  fair  one, 

Place  your  basket  by  my  side  !" 

IV. 
Gazing  on  the  tempting  cherries, 

Then  into  the  maiden's  eyes — 
'•  Which  are  redder,  cheeks  or  cherries  ?  " 

Thought  Sir  Tristien,  in  surprise. 

V. 

"  And  which  sweeter  ?     Ah  !  I'll  taste  them  ! 

There,  don't  tremble,  little  dear; 
Sweeter  far  than  all  your  cherries 

Are  the  charms  your  blushes  bear  ! " 

VI. 

Down  the  foot-path,  through  the  gateway, 
Down  the  stately  marble  stair, 
Sunburned  hands  and  feet  all  bare, 

Passed  a  little  peasant  maiden, 
Blushing  'neath  her  golden  hair. 

VII. 
Far  adown  the  dusty  highway, 

Through  the  waving  meadow-grass, 
Tristien  watched  the  little  maiden, 

Saw  her  with  her  cherries  pass. 


6B  ''  cherries:' 


VIII. 


"  Pretty  child,"  said  fair  Sir  Tristien, 
"  Though  she's  of  the  humble  crowd." 

"  Oh,  how  handsome  !     Oh,  how  noble  !  " 
Sighed  the  maiden,  half  aloud. 

IX. 

Summer  passed,  and  balmy  autumn 
Fringed  the  forest  leaves  with  gold  ; 

Winter  came,  and  round  the  hearthstone 
Many  wondrous  tales  were  told. 

X. 

Gazing  in  the  glowing  firelight 
Sat  a  maiden  pale  and  calm  ; 

Tight  she  held  the  silver  shilling 
Tristien  pressed  into  her  palm. 

XI. 

Far  across  the  chilly  moorland. 
O'er  the  fields  all  white  with  snow, 

Came  the  sound  of  jingling  sleigh-bells, 
Rippling  laughter,  music's  flow. 

XII. 

In  Sir  Tristien's  knightly  homestead 
Stately  forms  were  seen  to  stand — 

Noble  ladies,  courtly  gallants. 
All  the  proudest  of  the  land. 


"  cherries:'  69 

XIII. 

Up  the  foot-path,  through  the  gateway. 
Up  the  icy  marble  stair, 
Trembling  hands  and  feet  all  bare, 

Came  a  little  peasant  maiden, 
Deadly  pale,  yet  wondrous  fair ; 

XIV. 

Paused  beneath  the  ancient  archway, 
Knelt  beneath  the  window-pane. 

Freezing,  dying  little  maiden, 
Paused  and  looked,  and  gazed  again. 

XV. 

Light  the  snow-flake  fell  upon  her ; 

Chilly  winds  and  music's  sweep 
Hushed  the  little  blue-eyed  maiden 

Into  death's  unbroken  sleep. 

XVI. 

And  that  night,  Sir  Tristieo,  dreaming, 
Thought  he  saw  a  maiden  fair, 
Sunburned  hands  and  feet  all  bare. 
Blushing  'neath  her  golden  hair. 
Whisper,  "Cherries  ?  " — thought  he  kissed  her. 
Watched  her  form  until  he  missed  her. 
Far  adown  the  dusky  road. 
April,  1877.  ReAVEL. 


70  A    WOMAN'S  HAIR. 

A   WOMAN'S   HAIR. 

P.    LEA   THOM. 
"  Only  a  woman's  hair/'— Swift. 

Only  a  woman's  hair — 

But  a  woman's  royal  dower  ; 

And  the  canvas  has  glowed  with  its  grace, 
And  the  poets  have  sung  its  power. 

Only  a  woman's  hair — 

And  she  wears  no  other  crown  ; 

Then  pardon  the  womanly  pride 
In  its  wealth  of  gold  and  brown. 

Only  a  woman's  hair — 

But  braided  with  womanly  skill, 

And  shading  a  face  so  fair, 
Has  led  them  captive  at  will. 

And  'tis  only  a  woman's  hair. 

The  token  when  lovers  part. 
But  the  silken  tress  is  worn 

Next  to  the  manly  heart. 

And  so  a  woman's  hair 

Is  pledge  of  a  love  and  a  life,- 

Deed  for  that  wonderful  realm — 
The  loyal  heart  of  a  wife. 


THE    WAR   OF   THE  ROSES.  7 1 

And  if  some  day  this  shining  tress, 

So  soft  and  sunny  and  bright, 
Shall  be  hallowed  by  kisses  and  tears, 

And  laid  away  from  the  light, 

Still  will  a  woman's  hair 

Link  the  heart  with  the  dead, 
And  still  will  the  banner  of  love 

Be  furled  o'er  the  precious  head. 
May,  X877.  Lea. 


THE   WAR   OF   THE   ROSES. 

R.   T.    W.    DUKE,    JR. 

Within  her  cheek  the  red  rose  and  the  white 
So  fairly  mingle,  it  must  be  the  best 
That  both  should  conquer  in  the  equal  fight, 
And  as  they  mingle  put  all  strife  at  rest ; 
For  blushes  as  they  come  seem  half  ashamed, 
And  paleness  steals  from  'neath  the  radiant  glow, 
Till  like  carnations  in  the  drifted  snow, 
Which  is  the  brightest  none  can  ever  know. 
Ah  !  had  she  lived  five  hundred  years  ago, 
Sweet  truce  had  ne'er  been  broken,  treason  blamed, 
Nor  York  nor  Lancaster  had  struck  a  blow, 
But  both  in  homage  bowed,  both  content 
Upon  so  fair  a  queen  to  see  their  colors  blent. 

May,  1877.  ZETE. 


72  A    THOUGHT. 


IN    ABSENCE. 


Thy  heart  is  a  haven,  love, 

And  my  heart  is  a  rover, 
But  thy  love  for  me  is  a  deep  blue  sea 

On  which  my  heart  comes  over. 

And  no  storm  sweeps  that  sea, 
But  there  the  sun  shines  ever. 

On  its  breast  so  deep  as  the  shadows  sleep 
At  evening  on  the  river. 

My  heart's  good  ship  is  light. 

For  love  is  its  only  freighting  ; 
And  the  dearest  eyes  'neath  yonder  skies 
Are  waiting,  waiting,  waiting. 
November,  1878. 


A   THOUGHT. 

JOHN    MALLET. 


I  KNOW  not  whether  the  creed 

Of  the  Greeks  of  old  be  true — 
That  the  soul  lives  on  from  age  to  age, 

That  the  body  only  is  new  ; 

But  I  know  there's  a  spirit-face 
That  comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er — 

A  face  that  I  seem  to  have  known  and  loved 
In  a  far-off  land  before. 


MA   BLONDE.  73 

I  know  not  the  clime  nor  the  age 
When  our  souls  were  linked  as  one, 

Or  when  the  link  was  broken  by  death, 
And  I  left  weeping  alone. 

It  may  have  been  mid  the  Alps, 

In  a  hut  o'er  a  precipice  hung  ; 
Or  perhaps  beneath  Egyptian  palms 

When  the  Pyramids  were  young. 

But  somewhere,  long  ago, 

We  loved — I  care  not  when  ; 
And  I  trust  in  the  spirit-land  above 

We  shall  meet  and  love  again. 
January,  1879.  ^' 


MA    BLONDE. 

WILLIAM  E.    CHRISTIAN. 

Clear-cheeked,   rose-lipped   streamlet,  dimple, 

dimple, 
Laugh  and  dance  in  sweetness  simple,  simple  ; 
Bending  down  to  kiss  thy  face. 
My  features  in  thy  eyes  I  trace. 

Bright  blonde,  crowned  with  tresses  golden,  golden. 
More  fair  than  crown  of  princess  olden,  olden, 
Alas  !  the  shimmer  of  thine  eye 
Gives  back  no  image  !     Hence  the  sigh. 

April,  1879. 


74  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


THE   BLUE   RIDGE. 


Stretching  afar  throughout  the  Virgin's  land 
The  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  silent  majesty. 
How  lovingly  it  views  the  "sacred  soil," 
The  Valley  of  Virginia — garden  spot — 
And  nestling  at  its  feet  the  fair  Piedmont, 
Teeming  with  fruitage  ripe  for  harvesting. 
Sleek  cattle  grazing  on  a  thousand  hills, 
Between  whose  green  slopes,  gladdening  all  things, 

flow 
The  Shenandoah's  gently  murmuring  stream. 
The  Rappahannock  and  the  "  Bonnie  James," 
While  near  at  hand    its  dark,  green    mountains 

rise. 
With  each  receding  ridge  of  paler  hue, 
Until  it  fades  into  the  misty  sky  ! 
Grand    old    Blue    Ridge  !     So    peerless,    though 

unsung  ! 
Swissland,  snow-capped,  may  claim  sublimity. 
Soft  Italy  may  boast  her  mellow  tints, 
And  Greece  her  purple  hills,  yet  none  surpass 
The  beauty  of  thy  pure  ethereal  blue  ! 
But  better  far  than  beauty,  it  is  thine 
To  inspire  thy  sons  (as  all  true  mountain-born) 
With  high  resolve  and  noble  sentiment ; 
Breathing  in  all,  whate'er  their  sphere  may  be, 
A  glorious,  God-inspired  heritage — 
"  Live  firmly  in  the  Whole,  the  Good,  the  True  ! " 
January,  1880. 


ON  A   PICTURE   OF  M .  75 

ON    A   PICTURE  OF   M . 

JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON. 

"  Her  face  more  fair 
Than  sudden  singing  April  in  soft  lands. 

4c  *  «  *  *  * 

There  is  no  touch  of  sun  or  fallen  rain 
That  ever  fell  on  a  more  gracious  thing." 

—Swinburne. 

I. 

In  God's  bright  worid  there  are  so  many  things 
So  wonderful  we  cannot  pause  to  take 

A  glance  at  all.     'Round  some  of  these  there  clings 
A  halo  which  maketh  all  our  senses  ache 

With  beauty.     Yet  no  man  may  turn  away 
From  this  miraculous  face 

Without  a  wish  to  either  weep  or  pray — 

So  sanctified,  so  purified  it  is  with  heavenly  grace, 

But  radiant  as  the  dawning  of  a  golden  summer 
day. 

II. 

Oh,  flower-soft  face,  so  still,  so  sad,  so  sweet, 
Whose  every  curving  line  is  beauty's  own. 

Surely  the  heart  which  doth  not  faster  beat 
Beneath  thy  smile  must  be  a  heart  of  stone. 

In  the  dear  light  of  those  translucent  eyes 
Dimly  the  old-world  dreams 


l6  LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

Flood  through  my  soul  like  morning  melodies, 
And  down  the  purple  sun-dawn  Aurora's  chariot 

gleams 
And  Aphrodite  glimmers  'neath  serenely  smiling 

skies. 
mm  III. 

She  should  have  lived  thousands  of  years  ago, 

In  that  dim  age,  half  human,  half  divine. 
When   storm-winds   never  stirred  life's  rhythmic 
flow, 
Nor  dregs  fell  in  the  Bacchanalian  wine. 
Think  of  her,  painter,  lying  still  and  fair, 

Far  in  the  silent  South — 
Her  face  turned  upward  to  the  dazzling  air. 

With   the    honey   bees    a-murmur  around   her 
maiden  mouth, 
And  the  golden  Grecian  sunlight  on  her  hyacin- 
thine  hair. 
June,  1880.  J.    L.   G. 

LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

TO  J.    B.    G ,   SEPTEMBER    13,    1880. 

A.    C.    GORDON. 

In  the  hushed  twilight,  amid  shadows  gray. 
Alone  I  stand  and  dream  in  this  old  place 
That  knew  us  twain  as  boys,  on  which  thy  face 

May  shine  no  more  forever.     A  new  day 

O'er  grander  hills  than  yon  dim  mountains  seen 


FOAM  PICTURES,  77 

Through  troublous  tears  of  mine  hath  dawned  for 
thee. 

The  sky  is  bluer  there  ;  more  emerald  green 
The  wolds  and  dells  ;  and  there  is  no  more  sea. 

And  still  old  songs  go  ringing  through  my  brain, 
Old  shadows  haunt  me,  and  old  dreams  pursue — 

So  that,  perplexed,  I  question  in  my  pain 
The  wisdom  that  hath  promised  "all  things  new," 
Until  my  soul,  by  love  uplifted,  reads 
The  mystery  right  at  last  "  that  hangs  behind  the 
creeds." 

September,  1880.  A. 


FOAM    PICTURES. 

A  BREATHLESS  sky  ;  a  sultry  night ; 

A  crowded  beach  aglow  with  light ; 

A  group  of  bathers  in  the  ocean. 

Exulting  in  the  waves'  mad  motion. 

Fair  bosoms  breast  the  moonlit  tide, 

And  strong  arms  dash  the  surf  aside  ; 

And  the  foam-flakes  laugh  as  they  rustle  in 

O'er  rounded  form  and  dimpled  chin. 

Whilst  over  all,  and  in  and  out, 

Soft  music  winds  itself  about. 

As  the  silvery  notes  of  the  Liebstraum  float 

Far  out  at  sea  to  the  fisher's  boat ; 

And  the  fishermen  say,  as  they  hoist  the  sail, 

"The  waves  are  hissing,  there'll  be  a  gale." 


7^  FOAM  PICTURES, 

Adown  the  waves  the  silver  moon 
Descends  to  kiss  the  silver  sand  ; 

While  from  the  sea  the  sea-bird's  cry- 
Breaks  on  the  music  of  the  band. 


A  sudden  tempest's  sullen  roar, 
A  vessel  struggling  near  the  shore, 
Her  cables  parting  with  a  shock, 
Mad  waves  that  tumble  o'er  a  rock. 
White  faces,  sobs,  a  prayer  or  so, 
A  crash,  a  cry  of  helpless  woe. 
As  through  the  caverns  of  the  sea 
Frail  mortals  seek  Eternity, 
And  over  all  the  lightnings  play. 
And  Nature  sings  Death's  roundelay. 

The  wild  waves  moan  along  the  shore 
The  wild  winds  sob  and  sigh  ; 

And  high  above  the  breakers*  roar 
Is  heard  the  sea-bird's  cry. 


Along  the  east  faint  streaks  of  light, 
Foam-crested  breakers  gleaming  white. 
Some  dim  forms  moving  on  the  shore. 
And  others  still  for  evermore. 
Some  women  making  piteous  moan 
O'er  faces  carven  out  of  stone. 
While  on  the  dead  and  living  all 
A  cold  mist  settles  like  a  pall. 


EDELWEISS.  79 

A  sound  of  sighing  from  the  surf, 

And  from  the  beach  a  wailing  cry  ; 
And  over  all  the  breakers*  roar, 
And  over  all  a  leaden  sky. 
January,  i88i.  R.   G. 


EDELWEISS. 


Pillowed  in  cushions  of  ice  and  snow, 

Peeping  over  the  precipice  bare, 
The  white  clouds  kiss  thee  as  on  they  go, 
And  the  world  and  its  mortals  are  far  below. 

And  only  the  Alps  are  there. 

Thou  lookest  alone  on  the  rising  sun. 

While  the  hamlets  below  are  lapped  in  gloom  ; 
The  first  to  see  the  day  begun. 
And  the  last,  when  its  little  course  is  run. 
To  gaze  into  its"  tomb. 

Dost  thou  never  think  of  the  garden-bed  ? 

Dost  thou  never  wish  that  thou  wert  a  rose  ? 
Or  yearn  for  the  gentian's  blue  instead 
Of  that  passionless  white,  or  long  for  the  red 

Which  the  tiger-lily  shows  ? 

When  thou  liest  asleep  in  the  silent  night, 
While  over  the  crags  peers  the  moon's  pale  face  ; 

And  down  the  snow  trip  the  moonbeams  light, 

And  strive  to  drag  in  mad  delight 
Each  shade  from  its  hiding-place — 


8o  THE   GOLD   STRING. 

Dost  thou  dream,  in  thy  icy,  cloud-swept  nest. 
Of  a  sky  where  warmer  hues  are  blent  ? 

Or  nestle  in  dreams  on  a  rounded  breast. 

Content  to  die,  and  dying  rest 

Where  many  a  flower  hath  died  content? 

Ah,  no  !     In  thy  home  where  no  foot  hath  trod, 

A  fitting  mate  for  the  snow  and  ice, 
A  marble  flower  on  a  marble  sod. 
Chiselled,  forsooth,  by  the  hand  of  God, 

Thou  art  frostier  still  than  thy  home,  Edelweiss. 
June,  1881.  G.   R. 


THE  GOLD   STRING. 

The  minstrel's  harp  was  daintily  strung, 
And  empearled  like  a  shell  of  the  sea  ; 

Sweet  ran  the  chords  he  swept  as  he  sung, 
In  the  pride  of  the  minstrelsy. 

And  amid  the  strings  of  the  harp,  somewhere- 

But  where  could  never  be  told, 
For  all  were  gilded  to  see  and  fair — 

There  nestled  one  string  of  gold. 

And  whatever  tones  the  minstrel  brought 
From  the  chords  he  waked  from  sleeping. 

Into  the  music,  all  unsought, 

A  thrilling  sound  came  creeping  ; 


THE   GOLD   STRING.  8l 

For  high  above  the  pulsing  beat, 
The  surge  of  the  song  and  the  shiver, 

With  a  sound  more  clear  and  a  note  more  sweet 
The  golden  string  would  quiver. 

And  souls  peered  out  from  the  prison  bars 
As  the  worldlings  stopped  to  listen, 

And  thought  of  something  beyond  the  stars, 
And  dull  eyes  'gan  to  glisten. 

And  those  whose  grief  had  choked  them  broke 
At  the  sound  of  the  harp  and  the  sobbing  ; 

For  in  every  heart  an  echo  woke 
From  the  gold  string  and  its  throbbing. 

And  mortals  thought  that  one  sweet  note 
Had  slipped  through  the  great  pearl  portal, 

Down  the  dim  depths  of  space  afloat 
To  earth  from  the  choir  immortal. 


But  the  fountain-drops  plash  with  a  liquid  chime 

On  the  brook  which  floats  to  the  sea  ; 
And  we  are  but  drops  in  the  stream  of  Time, 

As  it  sweeps  to  Eternity. 

•X-  ^  -K-  -x-  ^  -x-  * 

So  there  came  a  dawn  in  the  early  spring. 

When  never  a  song  remains  unsung, 
When  birds  are  lightest  on  the  wing. 

And  the  gray  world  again  feels  young. 
6 


82  AFTER   THE  DIPLOMA, 

The  meadows  sparkled  with  morning  dew, 
Twittered  the  birds  in  their  wildwood  bower  ; 

They  rustled  their  little  throats  and  grew 
Half  mad  with  joy  of  the  passing  hour. 

The  nightingale  piped  his  lustiest  lay 
(Now  was  the  time  for  a  song,  or  never). 

The  sweet  tune  rose  and  died  away, 

But  the  minstrel's  harp  was  stilled  forever. 

The  breeze,  all  wanton,  touched  the  strings. 

But  they  echoed  back  no  token, 
And  the  mourners  sobbed  as  the  sun  went  down, 

For  the  golden  string  lay  broken  ! 
December,  1881.  G.  P.  R. 


AFTER   THE   DIPLOMA. 

CHARLES   WASHINGTON   COLEMAN. 

There  is  no  sentiment  'tween  man  and  man^ 
At  least  so  says  the  world  ;  and  when  men  part, 
'Tis  but  a  pressure  of  the  hand  ;  the  heart 
Is  silent  in  two  passionless  good-byes. 
And  so  men  drift  asunder.     Women  can 
Press  lips  to  lips,  look  love  from  eyes  to  eyes ; 
But  men  turn  off  to  reach  their  separate  ends. 
And  he  who  should  by  chance  their  faces  scan 
Would  little  guess  that  good-by  parted  friends. 


A    BIT  OF  HUMAN  NATURE.  ^3^ 

And  you  go  out  to  meet  the  world.     Oh,  boy, 
My  friend,  when  shall  the  old  days  come  again  ? 
And  when  they  come  shall  we  be  boys,  though 

men  ? 
When  shall  we  meet  ?     When  shall  our  pathways 

cross  ? 
No  more,  perhaps  ;  for  man  is  but  a  toy, 
A  plaything  for  a  wilful  fate  to  toss 
Upon  the  sea  of  life,  and  so  our  ways 
May  wander  on  and  on,  till  pain  or  joy 
Has  covered  with  a  mist  our  college  days. 

Good-by,  oh,   blue-eyed,    brown-haired    boy,    my 

friend  ! 
Old  fellow,  may  the  world  wag  well  with  you. 
Our  paths  divide,  and  out  beyond  our  view 
The  land  far  stretches  where  the  sun  goes  down. 
And  on  the  east  the  sea.      Shall  our  paths  blend  ? 
But  if  your  eyes  so  blue  and  mine  so  brown 
Shall  meet  on  earth  no  more,  then  when  the  noise 
Of  life  is  hushed,  life's  battle  at  an  end, 
God  grant  that  we  may  meet  above  as  boys. 
June  23, 1883.  V.   A.  Univ. 

A    BIT   OF    HUMAN    NATURE. 

CHARLES   WASHINGTON   COLEMAN. 

'TiS  only  a  pair  of  woman's  eyes. 
So  long-lashed,  soft,  and  brown. 

Half  hiding  the  light  that  in  them  lies, 
As  dreamily  looking  down. 


84  A    BIT  OF  HUMAN  JVA  TURK, 

'Tis  only  the  dainty  curve  of  a  lip, 
Half  full,  half  clear  defined, 

And  the  shell-like  pink  of  a  finger-tip, 
And  a  figure  half  reclined. 

'Tis  only  a  coil  of  rich,  dark  hair. 
With  sunlight  sifted  through. 

And  a  truant  curl  just  here  and  there, 
And  a  knot  of  ribbon  blue. 

'Tis  only  the  wave  of  a  feather  fan, 
That  ruffles  the  creamy  lace, 

Loose  gathered  about  the  bosom  fair. 
By  Rhine-stones  held  in  place. 

'Tis  only  the  toe  of  a  high-heeled  shoe. 
With  the  glimpse  of  a  color  above — ' 

A  stocking  tinted  a  faint  sky-blue, 
The  shade  that  lovers  love. 

*Tis  only  a  woman — a  woman,  that's  all. 
And,  as  only  a  woman  can. 

Bringing  a  heart  to  her  beck  and  call 
By  waving  her  feather  fan. 

'Tis  only  a  woman,  and  I — 'twere  best 

To  forget  that  waving  fan. 
She  only  a  woman — you  know  the  rest  ? 

But  I  am  only  a  man. 
April,  1884.  ^-  ^-  Nameloc. 


IN   THE   GERMAN.  85 

IN    THE   GERMAN. 

CHARLES   WASHINGTON   COLEMAN. 

She  stood  upon  the  polished  floor, 
Amid  the  ball-room's  blazing  light, 

And  slowly  scanned  the  circle  o'er, 
That  formed  the  dance  that  night. 

(The  waltz  they  played  was  Woman's  Love) 
She  stood  and  stroked  her  long  white  glove. 

The  creamy  silk  her  form  caressed, 

A  bunch  of  plumes  hung  o'er  her  heart  ; 

Her  bosom  by  soft  lace  was  pressed. 
Her  rich,  red  lips  apart. 

(The  German  was  the  dance  that  night.) 
One  high-heeled  shoe  was  just  in  sight. 

She  held  a  favor  in  her  hand, 

A  dainty,  perfumed,  painted  thing, 

A  tiny  heart — yet  he  would  stand. 
Who  won  that  prize,  a  king. 

(The  waltz  they  played  was  Woma7is  Love.) 
How  fast  my  throbbing  heart  did  move  ! 


S6  IN   THE   GERMAN. 

Men  watched  her  there  with  eager  eyes, 
The  light  upon  her  curls  did  shine  ; 

Then  with  a  look  of  sweet  surprise, 
Her  great  gray  eyes  met  mine. 

(The  German  was  the  dance  that  night.) 
She  smiled — her  smile  was  wondrous  bright. 

She  waved  her  fan  coquettishly, 

And  half  inclined  her  well-poised  head. 

As  in  a  tone,  part  coy,  part  shy, 
"  Here,  take  my  heart,"  she  said. 

(The  waltz  they  played  was  Woman's  Love.) 
Her  hand  in  mine  lay  like  a  dove. 

I  felt  love  in  my  pulses  start. 

She  was  my  own  for  that  brief  space  ; 

Her  heart  was  beating  'gainst  my  heart, 
Her  breath  played  o'er  my  face. 

(The  German  was  the  dance  that  night.) 
The  dawn  broke  slowly  into  light. 

Has  she  who  gave  forgotten  quite  ? 

I  wear  that  heart  my  own  above. 
(The  German  was  the  dance  that  night ; 

The  waltz  they  played  was  Woman's  Love.) 

November,  1884.  W.  C.  NaMELOC. 


THE   HARP-GIRL.  87 

THE   HARP-GIRL. 

GEORGE  W.  SMITH. 
(From  the  German  of  Heine.) 

A  LITTLE  wand'ring  harp-girl  sang 
With  simple  art  and  childish  feeling  ; 

Tho'  notes  were  false,  they  thro*  me  rang, 
As  if  my  soul  revealing. 

She  sang  of  love,  and  love's  dear  sorrow 

Ascended  up  and  found  again, 
Far  overhead,  that  sweet  to-morrow 

Where  sorrows  must  refrain. 

And  much  she  sang  of  the  earthly  goal, 
Of  earthly  joys  which  soon  are  flown. 

Of  golden  shores  where  flits  the  soul 
Clothed  in  its  snowy  gown. 

She  sang  the  old  dismissal  song, 

So  oft  by  mourning  friendship  given, 

To  waft  earth-weary  souls  along 
Across  death's  sea  to  heaven. 

And  so  the  wand'ring  harp-girl  sang 
With  simple  art  and  childish  feeling; 

Tho'  notes  were  false,  they  thro'  me  rang. 
As  if  my  soul  revealing. 
December,  1884.  MEISTERSINGER. 


88       y£   POET   TO  HIS  LAD  YE  LOVE. 
PLANTATION   SONG. 

EDGAR   B.  RAYMOND. 

De  big  sunflower  may  rise  above 

De  modes'  'tater-vine, 
An*  flaunt  aroun'  in  Sunday  close 

An*  put  on  a*rs  so  fine. 

But  when  de  winter  am  a-howlin'  roun*. 

An*  de  snow  lays  *gin  de  do', 
De  big  sunflower,  oh,  whar  is  he  ? 

De  'tater  got  de  flo*. 
February,  1885. 


Y^    POET   TO   HIS   LADYE   LOVE. 

CHARLES   WASHINGTON   COLEMAN. 

THREE   RONDEAUX. 
I. 

SWEETE  Mistresse  Maye : 

Y'  She  Will  Bee  Hys  Valentyne. 

Sweete  Mistresse  Maye,  debonaire, 
I  vrge  thee  hearken  to  mye  Prayer 
Vpon  y^  Page  traced  in  y^  Lyne, 
Mye  Muse  wovld  faine  y«  Task  declyne, 
Bewildered  bye  thye  Beautie  rare. 


■  V^    POET   TO  HIS  LAD  YE  LOVE.      89 

I  praie  thee  make  mee  not  despaire, 
Ye  whilste  I  doe  mye  Love  declare 
Ande  begge  thee  bee  mye  Valentyne, 
Sweete  Mistresse  Maye. 

Thou  art  contrarie,  some  wovM  sweare, 
(Y«  savcie  Jades  such  Envie  beare), 

Butte  faine  wov'd  I  mye  Hearte  resigne, 
Ande  praye  thine  owne  in  place  of  mine : 
Provde  thenne  I'd  bee  beyonde  compare, 
Sweete  Mistresse  Maye  ! 


II. 

A  RONDEAU,  IN  Ye     PRAISE  OF  HYS   MISTRESS' 

EYES. 

O  Eyes  divine,  whose  Beautie  glows 
(I  weene  y^  Nighte  such  Starres  ne'er  showes) 
Atweene  y^®  Lashes  cvrled  and  longe, 
Yovr  Ivcid  Blve  canne  dreame  noe  Wronge, 
Whenne  soft  att  Night  y«  thinne  Lyddes  close. 

Like  Pansies  blooming  in  Repose, 
Above  y®  Cheek's  translucent  Rose, 
Fytte  theme  are  Ye  for  Poet's  Song, 
O  Eyes  Divine  ! 

To  rydde  my  Hearte  of  all  its  Woes 
Y®  Depth  of  Love  abvndante  flovves, 


90       yB  POET   TO  HIS  LAD  YE  LOVE. 

Y*  in  yovr  Blve  bvrnes  bright  and  stronge  ; 
Ye  to  mye  Ladye-Love  belonge, 
Ande  gleame  each  side  her  daintie  Nose, 
O  Eyes  divine  ! 


III. 

GOODE-NIGHTE,    SWEETEHEARTE. 

GoODE-NlGHTE,  Sweetehearte  !  Good-Nighte,  my 

Sweete  ! 
Y«  Watchman  crying  in  y«  Streete, 

Has  told  y^  Houre  whenne  I  must  goe — 
"Twelve  of  y^   Clocke  !    Alleys  Welle!" — ande 
soe 
I  leave  thee  with  relvctant  Feete. 

As  cryes  y«  Watchman  on  his  Beate, 
Beneathe  thy  Windowe  I  repeate — 

"Twelve  of  y^  Clocke  !   Alle's  Welle,"  I  trowe  ; 
Goode-Nighte,  Sweetehearte  ! 

Bvtte  rosie  Morn  y«  Worlde  shalle  greete, 
And  bydde  y^  cruell  Nighte  retreate — 

Mye  Lyppes  thy  Lyddes  once  more  shall  knowe, 
Thine  Eyes  into  mine  Eyes  shalle  glowe — 
Good-Nighte,  deare  Love,  till  thenne  we  meet, 
Goode-Nighte,  Sweetehearte  ! 

February,  1885.  W.  C.  NaMELOC. 


LA    CAMPAGNE  D' AMOUR,  9 1 

LA   CAMPAGNE   D'AMOUR. 

ROBERT  COLEMAN  TAYLOR. 

Be  on  thy  guard,  dear  heart, 
Be  on  thy  guard. 
See  that  thou  be  not  taken  unawares  ; 
Yield  not  too  blindly  to  her  charms  ; 
Fast  close  thy  gates ;  let  him  who  rashly  dares 
Deceive  himself  with  false  alarms. 
Be  on  thy  guard,  dear  heart, 
Be  on  thy  guard. 

Make  brave  defence,  dear  heart, 
Make  brave  defence. 
But  if  the  overpowering  enemy 

Environ  thee  with  serried  host, 
And  'mid  charms  militant  no  coquetry 
Storm  ruthlessly  thy  guarded  post. 
Yield  gracefully,  dear  heart. 
Yield  gracefully. 

Then  rouse  thyself,  dear  heart. 
Then  rouse  thyself. 
Vae  victrici !    Compel  the  conqueress, 

Who  erstwhile  conquered  thee,  in  turn. 
Employ  thy  might,  thine  art,  thy  brave  address ; 
No  peace,  or  her  heart-towers  burn. 
So  rouse  thyself,  dear  heart. 
So  rouse  thyself. 


92  CORKING. 

Then  shall  she  yield,  dear  heart, 
Then  shall  she  yield. 
Make   generous   peace  ;   join   sometime   warring 
hosts  ; 
In  sweet  confederacy  combine  ; 
Until  your  happy  union  proudly  boasts 
That  thou  art  hers,  that  she  is  thine. 
Thy  task  is  done,  dear  heart, 
Thy  task  is  done. 
March,  1885.  4  M. 

CORKING. 

J.  S.  W.  PETERS. 

Of  all  the  ills  that  life  entails, 
The  worst,  there's  no  use  talking, 

Is  to  sit  like  an  ass 

In  the  Moral  class, 
And  be  corking,  gently  corking. 

The  Devil  I  stopped  in  the  road  one  day^ 
While  around  the  world  he  was  stalking, 

And  I  said,  "  Do  you  know 

In  the  regions  below 
A  torture  as  awful  as  corking  ?  " 

He  dropped  a  professor  he  had  in  his  arms, 
And,  as  he  was  tired  of  walking, 

Hung  the  curl  of  his  tail 

On  the  end  of  a  rail, 
And  said,  "  No,  we  have  nothing  like  corking." 


FRIENDS.  93 

And  now  as  I  toil  with  a  blackboard  full 
Of  questions  long  and  balking, 

I  sigh  for  the  day 

When  I'll  hasten  away 
To  the  place  they  have  nothing  like  corking  ! 

March,  1885. 


FRIENDS. 

CHARLES   WASHINGTON   COLEMAN. 

Two  friends  there  were  who  down  the  sunny  years 
Went  hand  in  hand  along  the  pleasant  ways 
Of  college  life — there  are  no  more  such  days 

As  college  days  ;  ambition,  hope,  no  fears. 

And  of  those  friends  a  passion  deep  as  tears 
Ruled  over  one  ;  but  reticent  of  praise, 
And  slow  to  show  his  heart,  careless  always. 

The  other  seemed  to  move  in  alien  spheres. 

These  friends  as  men  the  great  world  shook  apart ; 

One  bade  farewell  with  smiles,  and  one  with 
tears  ; 

And  time  went  sweeping  on  its  course  to  fill. 
To  him  who  gave  the  fervor  of  his  heart 

That  friendship  lies  forgotten  in  the  years  ; 

But  he  who  careless  seemed  remembers  still. 

April,  1885.  V.  A.  Univ. 


94  BONN  YB  EL, 


TO 


F.    R.    LASSITER. 

Fairer  than  tongue  can  tell 

Or  pictured  art, 
Thine  is  the  witching  spell 

Love  doth  impart. 
Clasping  my  golden  chains, 
Singing  in  olden  strains, 

All  of  my  soul  is  thine, 

Maid  of  my  heart ! 

Sweet  !  thou  canst  never  know 

Love  such  as  mine ; 
Still  let  thy  heart  bestow 

Such  as  is  thine. 
Give  what  I've  striven  for. 
Care  shall  be  driven  far; 

Drinking  long  draughts  of  love, 

Nectar  divine. 
May,  1885.  Benedict. 


BONNYBEL. 

CHARLES   WASHINGTON   COLEMAN. 

Beneath  her  bonnet's  dainty  brim 
Are  two  bright  eyes. 
Like  summer  skies, 


BONN  YB  EL.  95 

That  laugh  below  a  fluffy  rim 

Of  tangled  hair, 

Which  I  declare 
Is  cute,  though  anything  but  trim. 

Between  her  eyes  so  blue  and  fair 

A  saucy  nose, 

With  upward  pose, 
Is  impudently  tossed  in  air, 

Quite  retrousse. 

Ah,  well-a-day. 
You  are  a  saucy  miss,  I  swear  ! 

Beneath  her  nose  so  retrousse 

Two  lips  a-smile 

With  witching  wile. 
Like  roses  blossoming  in  May  ; 

Those  lips  apart, 

With  cunning  art. 
Will  well-nigh  steal  your  heart  away. 

Beneath  that  fluffy  fall  of  lace, 

Upon  her  breast 

So  softly  pressed, 
A  saucy  heart  there  beats  apace. 

Ah,  sweet,  I  pray 

That  soon  I  may 
Within  that  dear  heart  find  a  place. 
May,  1885.  J.   L.  K, 


g6  ADIEU. 

THE   LILY    AND   THE   BROOK. 

While  passing  along  by  the  rippling  brook, 
Where  the  fairies  dwell  in  their  sunny  nook, 
I  saw  a  lily  bending  low, 
Kissing  the  rippling  stream  below; 
But  the  stream  rushed  on  with  its  busy  pace, 
Ne'er  giving  a  thought  to  the  lily's  face. 
December,  1885.  StET. 


ADIEU. 

F.    R.   LASSITER. 

List  to  my  simple  lay. 
Queen  of  my  heart ! 

Words  that  I  fain  would  say, 
Thickly  upstart. 

Hot  blood  is  beating  fast. 

Moments  are  fleeting  past, 
Soon  we  must  part. 

Long  has  wild  love  for  thee 
Burned  in  my  breast. 

Living  out  painfully 
Years  of  unrest. 

Never  despairingly. 

Madly  and  daringly. 

Always  within  my  soul 
Fond  hope  is  pressed. 


A    TOAST.  97 

Then  thy  heart  turned  to  me, 

Nestled  in  mine, 
Clasping  me  lovingly, 

Rapture  divine  ! 
Ills  ceased  oppressing  me. 
Love,  sweetly  blessing  me, 
Thrilled  all  my  beating  veins. 

Joyous  as  wine. 

Now  must  I  leave  thy  side  ; 

Fates  still  pursue ; 
Oh,  let  thy  love  abide 

Fervent  and  true  ! 
Clasping  thee,  pressing  this 
Last,  long,  caressing  kiss, 
Soul  of  my  soul  beloved, 

Darling,  adieu  ! 
December,  1885.  ^'  ^'  ^' 


A  TOAST. 


"  Give  us,"  they  cried,  "  a  toast." 
Each  could  of  some  one  boast. 
Of  some  one  who  had  loved  him  most. 
"Give  us  her  name,"  they  cried  ; 
"  Is  she  living,  or  has  she  died  ? 
No  matter.     Give  us  a  toast,"  they  cried. 
Why  should  I  say  I  had  ever  loved  ? 
'Twas  unknown  to  all,  save  Him  who's  above. 
7 


9^  A    TOAST. 

Why  should  I  give  to  them  her  full  name  ? 

I  could  drink  to ,  'twould  be  just  the  same. 

My  love  was  unknown  to  all  the  feast  ; 

Sure,  I  could  think  of  her  this  night  at  least. 

So  I  rose  and  held  my  glass  on  high, 

And  tho'  years  had  flown,  was  that  a  sigh  } 

"  Is  she  young,  and  is  she  fair  ? 

Tell  us  the  color  of  your  loved  one's  hair." 

"She's    as    bright,"    I    cried,    "as    this   glass   of 

wine  ! " 
Why  should  I  say  she'd  never  be  mine  ? 
"  Her  teeth  are  pearls  from  the  deep  blue  sea  !  " 
Why  should  I  say  she  had  never  loved  me  ? 
"  The  color  of  her  hair  is  a  golden  hue, 
Her  eyes  are  of  an  indescribable  blue." 
Why  should  I  say  my  heart  was  sore  ? 
I  had  said  enough,  there  was  need  of  no  more. 
They  rose  with  a  laugh,  and,  with  eyes  on  me. 
Each  man  raised  his  glass,  and  with  a  shout  full 

of  glee — 
"  Here's  to  your  love,  and  to  you  a  success." 
Each  man  thought  I  could  wish  no  less. 
Why  should  I  tell  them  'twas  all  in  vain, 
That  she  laughed  at  me  when  she  saw  my  pain  ? 
Why  should  I  say  my  heart  was  sore  ? 
I  had  said  enough,  there  was  need  of  no  more. 
December,  1885.  CaNTATRICE. 


A  REVERIE.  99 

YE  YNNKE  SPOTTE. 

ROBERT   COLEMAN   TAYLOR. 

YE  Ynnk«  opinyng^   Hee  y^   Smart« 
Hath«  tak^n  scvrvie  Paynes  and  gott« 
Ovt  of  Hys  Waie  to«  l^av^  a  Blott^ 

Vponn^  my«  Book«  hys  Ovt-Sid«   Part^ 

Bvtt®  Look«  !  Knav«  Cvpyd  hys  Deep«   Art® 
Y^  to^  bee  Seen.     Yis  tricksie  Spott« 
Y^  rath^re  to«  bee  Pryz^d  Y"  nott^  ; 

Forr  y"  y^  sharp«<^  lyk«  a  Hearts  I 
January,  1886. 

A   REVERIE. 
STERLING  GALT. 

At  eventide,  when  all  is  calm. 
And  shadows  flit  across  the  lea, 

Fond  memory  with  its  soothing  balm 
Wafts  recollection  dear  to  me. 

I  think  of  days  now  past  and  gone. 
Of  pleasures  we  have  often  shared, 

Of  sorrows  which  alike  were  borne 
By  each  for  whom  the  other  cared. 

How  sweet  the  scenes  of  by-gone  years  ! 

How  dear  we  loved  each  other  then  ! 
But  now  how  changed  by  sorrow's  tears 

That  joy  which  ne'er  can  be  again  ! 


lOO  A   MIRAGE. 

Like  leaves  that  on  a  streamlet  swift 
Glide  side  by  side,  our  love  has  been  ; 

But  like  them  parted,  now  we  drift 
Asunder,  ne'er  to  meet  again. 

*Tis  pleasant  to  remember  all 

The  sweetness  of  the  happy  past ; 

So  let  Oblivion's  curtain  fall 

On  sorrow,  but  let  pleasure  last. 

January,  1886.  D.  D£  L. 


A  MIRAGE. 

EDGAR   B.  HAYMOND. 

The  long,  slim  shadows  from  the  rising  moon 
Fell  on  my  love  and  me,  and  stretched  far  off 
Athwart  the  velvet  grass.     The  dreary  day 
Was  now  to  close  with  bliss  the  gods  themselves. 
With  all  their  wealth  of  rapturous  bliss,  ne'er  felt. 
But  when  my  heart  gave  one  tumultuous  bound 
Of  great  dehght  that  we  were  thus  alone, 
Lo  !  even  then,  she  crushed  the  rising  hope. 
Took  from  my  lips  the  cup  which  I  would  drink, 
And  left  me  thirsting,  as  old  Dives' self 
Ne'er  thirsted  in  hell's  torments  of  the  lost. 
For  then,  with  heartless  cruelty,  she  went, 
On  slight  pretext,  to  leave  me  there  forlorn, 
In  depths  of  desperate  misery  plunged  ;  and  went 
To  leave  me,  not  upon  the  lawn,  which  erst 
Had  seemed  a  beauteous  paradise,  but  stretched 


A   MIRAGE.  lOl 

Upon  an  arid  waste  of  desert  sand, 
Without  a  hope  to  live  ;  my  only  wish 
To  win  forgetfulness  of  self,  of  pain, 
Of  her,  and  find  relief  and  peace  in  death. 


As  when  some  traveller  on  Sahara's  sands 

Has  lost  himself,  and  hope  abandoned  long, 

And  prays  for  death  to  stop  the  pangs  of  life. 

But,  all  despondent,  looking  hopeless  up. 

Sees  on  before  a  glorious  stretch  of  green. 

With  lofty  trees  and  babbling-brooks,  to  save 

And  strengthen  him  for  all  his  onward  march — 

E'en  so  came  my  mirage  in  my  despair. 

For  then  I  dreamed  her  face  was  close  to  mine, 

I  felt  her  sweet,  warm  breath  play  on  my  cheek. 

As  Adam  once  felt  his  Creator's  come 

To  give  him  life.    And  now,  with  life,  came  more — 

Came  wish  to  live,  and  firm  resolve  to  lead 

A  higher,  holier,  purer  life,  thenceforth, 

For  her  dear  sake  and  for  my  love  to  her. 

No  hot  blood  then  coursed  maddening  through 

my  veins, 
But  cool,  delicious  streams,  with  mighty  power 
To  raise  me  high  above  my  former  self, 
To  love  without  an  earth-taint  marring  it. 
I  did  not  even  wish,  with  touch  profane, 
To  give  caresses  to  her  dimpled  cheek. 
Or  steal  one  lingering  kiss  from  her  rich  lips. 
Or  let  my  hand  stray  through  her  massy  hair. 


I02  TO  . 

Or  ask  for  any  boon  which  lovers  deem 
Their  right  and  hold  so  dear.     Enough  for  me 
To  know  that  she  was  near,  and  that  my  soul 
Was  wedded  to  her  soul  in  love  divine. 
And  as  my  raptured  thought  looked  on  adown 
The  vista  of  the  years  to  come,  it  seemed 
That  they  were  filled  with  more  than  heavenly  joy, 
With  this  grand  creature  ever  by  my  side. 
*         -x-         -x-         -x-         4t         -x-         -x- 

So  long  this  glory  lasted  that  the  trees 

Drew  to  their  trunks  the  lengthy  shadows  frail, 

And  massed  them  there  ;  and  then  towards  the 

east 
Saw  them  stretch  out  to  greet  the  coming  morn. 
And  then,  alas  !  my  throbbing  heart  stood  still. 
The  dream  was  past,  and  with  it  life  was  gone. 

October,  1886. 


TO 


My  heart  is  gone  as  Cupid  leads, 

And  me  for  thee  it  does  forswear. 
Reveal  to  me,  if  I  must  needs 

To  seek  it  from  my  lady  fair ; 

For  if  thou  fain  wouldst  keep  it  there, 
Then  send  me  thine  for  mine,  which  pleads 

That  one  soul  should  not  have  a  pair. 
And  heartless  be  to  heart  that  bleeds. 
January,  1887. 


THE  MODERN  OLYMPUS.  1 03 

THE   MODERN    OLYMPUS. 

HERBERT    BARRY. 

His  noontide  heat  the  orb  of  day  had  past, 

And  now  the  growing  shadows  lengthen  fast, 

When,  in  obedience  to  great  Jove's  command, 

The  gods  assembled  in  an  august  band  ; 

And,  gathering  in  the  stately  pillared  hall, 

They  wait  the  object  of  the  monarch's  call. 

Majestic  Jove  with  gloomy  brow  surveyed 

That  lordly  throng  who  his  behest  obeyed. 

And  them  addressed  :  "  Immortals,  well  ye  know 

That,  of  the  human  race  on  earth  below, 

Our  followers  are  all  disciples  true 

Who  search  for  knowledge  and,  our  will  to  do. 

Before  our  altars  burn  the  midnight  oil. 

Hoping  that  thus  success  may  crown  their  toil. 

Well  have  they  served,  but  now  grow  discontent, 

And  on  some  recreation  all  are  bent. 

They  crave  to  dance,  and  so  to  me  they  pray 

Upon  this  point  to  let  them  have  their  way  ; 

But  after  careful  thought  and  meditation. 

This  question  I  resolved  as  an  equation, 

In  which  the  unknown  quantity  is  sin. 

Increasing  fast  when  once  it  doth  begin. 

And  soon  not  even  calculus  can  show 

To  what  excess  of  vice  it  will  not  go. 

If  mathematics  cannot  count  the  cost, 

They  lose  not,  though  the  pleasure  may  be  lost. 


I04  THE  MODERN  OLYMPUS, 

On  this  account  I  have  denied  their  prayer; 
Yet,  lest  I  might  be  ever  thought  unfair, 
I  now  submit  their  plea  before  you  all, 
The  dread  tribunal  of  th'  Olympic  Hall." 
The  monarch  ceased,  and  for  a  little  space 
A  solemn  silence  rested  on  the  place. 
Then  rose  bright  Phoebus  with  the  fiery  hair, 
With  whom  for  form  and  feature  none  compare. 
And  spake  in  thrilling  and  impassioned  tone. 
With  eloquence  to  move  a  heart  of  stone : 
*'0  Gods,  I  would  not  dance  if  I  knew  how, 
Because  it's  wicked,  as  we  all  allow ; 
And  if  a  person  dances,  I  know  well 
He's  far  advanced  upon  the  road  to  Tartarus."  * 
Then  Ceres,  who  o'er  agriculture  reigns. 
And  guides  in  botany  the  rustic  swains. 
Stood  forth  and  spake :  "  O  Gods,  I  little  care 
'Whether  they  dance  or  not ;  but  this  I  swear  : 
That  my  disciples  have  no  time  indeed 
For  such  amusements,  since  it  is  agreed 
Their  toils  surpass  e'en  those  of  Hercules." 
She  stops,  and  on  each  face  approval  sees  ; 
And  pleased  with  the  unusual  favor  shown, 
With  beaming  face  resumes  her  stately  throne. 
Next,  Mercury,  who  rides  upon  the  wind, 
Of  whose  original  and  brilliant  mind 
Boethius,  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  all  do  tell. 
Then  rose  and  spake :  **  O  Jove,  I  know  full  well 

*  Somehow  this  does  not  exactly  rhyme,  but  it  was  the  best 
word  the  ancients  had. 


THE  MODERN  OLYMPUS.  105 

That  thou  hast  rightly  judged,  and  so  I  say, 

Let   not   weak   mortals  dance,  e'en  though  they 

may 
Be  not  thus  harmed  ;  which  I  do  doubt,  and  think 
That  this  alone  would  lead  them  on  to  drink 
Celestial  nectar,  which  would  drive  them  mad." 
So  spake  the  god  with  dismal  face  and  sad. 
Next,  Pallas,  who  reigns  over  abstruse  thought 
And  all  philosophy,  then  rose  and  brought 
Her  gems  of  logic  to  assist  their  choice. 
And,  after  frequent  stops  to  clear  her  voice. 
Thus  spake  :  "  O  Gods,  I  have  reflected  long 
Upon  this  point,  and  find  the  dance  is  wrong. 
For,  view  this  proposition  in  extension. 
And  by  the  Third  Law,  which  I  need  not  mention. 
We  know  there  cannot  be  a  tertiujn  quid. 
Which  also  Occam's  law  must  quite  forbid. 
So  then  there  is  no  mood  that  this  will  fit. 
Not  even  '  Fokmafokf  *  can  furnish  it. 
And  now  you  see  from  this  account  succinct 
The  non-ego  and  ego  are  distinct. 
Hence  we  infer,  without  the  slightest  chance 
Of  error,  that  these  mortals  must  not  dance." 
Quite  stunned  by  this,  the  gods  a  moment  pause 
Ere  showing  their  approval  in  applause. 
Up  rose  then  Venus,  more  than  mortal  fair, 
And  shaking  back  her  tangled  locks,  which  ne'er 
Had  suffered  from  the  touch  of  comb  or  brush. 
She  smiled  and  raised  her  hand,  at  which  a  hush 
Fell  o'er  the  throng,  whom  then  she  thus  addressed  : 


lo6  THE  MODERN  OLYMPUS, 

"Stop,  gentlemen,   pray  do  not  romp  and  rois- 
ter, 
And  make,  I  beg,  no  more  noise  than  anoyster : 
For  to  this  question  of  the  dance  I'd  danswer, 
If  we  don't  stop  them  we  must  let  each  dancer 
Dangor   not    dance."     So    spake    the    Queen    of 

Beauty. 
Thereon,  obedient  to  the  call  of  duty. 
The  amorous  Bacchus  from  his  seat  thus  spake  : 
"  This  high  court  of  uncommon  pleas  must  take 
The  cognizance  of  a  peculiar  cause 
To  judge  by  fancy  and  Olympic  laws. 
Wherein  consider  :  These  our  slaves  have  filed 
A  declaration  setting  forth  their  wild 
Desire  for  the  dance  ;  but  pray  observe 
The  court  has  quashed,  as  it  did  well  deserve, 
This  action,  showing  that  the  laws  of  Nature 
Work  well  in  absence  of  a  legislature. 
His  judgment  I  support  upon  appeal. 
Witness  thereto  this  day  my  hand  and  seal." 
Next  rose  the  graceful  god  from  down  below, 
And  with  the  bold,  free  glance  we  all  well  know, 
Surveyed  the  throng  ;  and  from  triassic  strata, 
Essayed  to  bring  his  thoughts  upon  this  matter, 
Leaving  a  little  time  his  rocks  and  ores 
And  paleontologic  dammolebores  ; 
Then  eloquently  spake  :  "  Oh,  ye  immortals. 
Secure  I  dwell  within  my  palace  portals. 
And  ever  shun  vain  woman's  tender  gaze. 
Lest  I  unwittingly  should  let  them  raise 


AT   THE   OPERA.  X07 

Fond  hopes,  alas  !  yet  cherished  but  to  die. 
Thus  to  myself  I  live,  nor  do  I  sigh 
To  tread  the  dance's  maze,  nor  do  I  see 
Why  all  do  not  take  pattern  after  me." 

Upon  these  words  a  murmur  of  assent 
From  lip  to  lip  around  the  circle  went, 
And  swelling  upward  into  loud  applause, 
Resounded  as  a  death-knell  to  the  cause  ; 
And  then,  as  with  one  voice,  the  gods  pronounced 
The  sentence  that  the  dance  must  be  renounced. 
Now  from  the  lofty-columned  judgment  halls. 
Exeunt  omnes,  and  the  curtain  falls. 

February,  1887, 


AT   THE    OPERA. 

JAMES   LINDSAY  GORDON. 

"  Swung  by  the  might  of  music  up  to  the  Spirit  land." 

— Schiller. 

Beneath  the  gas-lamps*  glow, 
Where  light  tides  of  laughter  flow, 
And  the  music  of  the  orchestra  breathes  tenderly 
and  low, 
I  watch  fair  eyes  that  gleam. 
And  faces  here  that  seem 
To  blossom,  fade  and  blossom,  like  dream  faces 
through  a  dream. 


Io8  AT   THE   OPERA. 

And  the  flash  of  waving  fans, 
Held  in  white  and  jewelled  hands, 
Bring  odors  as  of  light  winds  blown  from  hyacinth- 
haunted  lands  ; 
Till  the  heated  air  is  stirred 
With  a  flute-note  like  a  bird, 
And  as  one  voice  rises  upward  no  other  sound  is 
heard. 

For  the  bright  lights  seem  to  sway, 
And  the  air  turns  pale  and  gray. 
And  the  orchestra  seems  silent  and  the  faces  fade 
away  ; 
Borne  on  music's  waves  I  go, 
With  that  voice's  ebb  and  flow. 
To  far  lands  'neath  a  Southern  sun  where  radiant 
roses  blow. 

And  my  heart  beats  faster,  filled 
With  my  youth's  lost  hope,  and  thrilled 
With  the  ecstasy  I  knew  when  first  love's  golden 
trumpets  shrilled  : 
As  again  and  yet  again 
That  sorrow-shattering  strain 
Floods  over  me  its  liquid  waves  of  rapture  and  of 
pain. 

Ah,  as  the  clear  voice  slips 
Through  Love's  Apocalypse, 
A  white  hand  seems  to  hold  the  cup  of  Lethe  to 
my  lips  ; 


AT   THE   OPERA.  109 

Through  fields  of  flower-bright  sod, 
By  paths  God's  angels  trod, 
I  follow  where  one  golden  voice  goes  ringing  up 
to  God. 

Old  bitter  thoughts  decrease — 
Old  bitter  memories  cease — 
The  world  is  wrapped  in  sunshine  and  the  winds 
are  whispering  peace ; 
No  more  life  seems  forlorn, 
Every  rose  has  lost  its  thorn. 
As  on  the  rippling  tides  of  song  my  tranced  heart 
is  borne. 

And  now  the  song  is  done — 
And  again  the  bright  lights  run 
Across  the  flash  of  jewelled  hands  like  rain-drops 
in  the  sun  ; 
And  I  hear  again  the  beat 
Of  the  viols  low  and  sweet. 
And  smell  again  the  hyacinth  blooms  athwart  the 
summer  heat. 

But  though  memory  and  regret 

May  make  my  lashes  wet. 
The  music  I  have  heard  to-night  I  never  shall  forget; 

For  through  song's  golden  door 

And  along  its  heavenward  floor 
My  soul  went  nearer  unto  God  than  it  ever  was 
before. 

March,  1887.  J.    L.   G. 


no   SATS  TOWSER  AND  MY  TROUSER. 
SAL'S   TOWSER   AND   MY   TROUSER. 

A  RUSTIC   IDYL   BY  A   RUSTIC   IDLER. 

THOMAS   L.   DABNEY. 

But  yestere'en  I  loved  thee  whole, 
Oh,  fashionable  and  baggy  trouser  ! 

And  now  I  loathe  and  hate  the  hole 
In  thee,  I  do,  I  trow,  sir. 

I  sallied  out  to  see  my  Sal, 

Across  yon  round  hill's  brow,  sir ; 

I  didn't  know  she,  charming  gal. 
Had  a  dog — a  trouser-browser. 

I'd  sauntered  in  quite  trim  and  spruce, 
When  on  a  sudden,  oh,  my  trouser, 

I  felt  thee  seized  where  thou'rt  most  loose— 
I  tarried  there  with  Towser. 

I  on  the  fence,  he  down  below. 
And  thou  the  copula,  my  trouser, 

I  thought  he  never  would  let  go — 
This  gentle  Towser. 

They  say  that  fashion  cuts  thee  loose, 
But  not  so  fashioned  is  Sal's  Towser ; 

Thou  gavest  away  at  last,  no  use 
To  tarry,  tear^d  trouser. 


WHEN  SHADOWS  FALL.  i^ 

Miss  Sarah  she  is  wondrous  sweet, 

And  I'd  have  once  loved  to  espouse  her, 

But  my  calling  trouser  has  no  seat — 
I  left  it  there  with  Towser. 

So  all  unseated  is  my  suit  ; 

I  must  eschew  Miss  Sarah  now,  sir ; 
He's  chewed  my  trouser  ;  'twouldn't  suit 

Me  to  meet  Towser. 
December,  1887.  RUSTICUS. 


WHEN   SHADOWS   FALL. 


BERNARD    WOLF. 

Now  the  heart  is  young,  and  love  is  sweet. 
And  the  spring-time  of  life  and  its  summer  meet. 
With  never  a  sigh  for  the  winter  to  be  ; 
The  sun  shines  bright,  and  the  way  is  free, 
With  joy  replete. 

But  the  darkness  comes  when  no  man  can  see  ; 
Joy  ceases  to  visit  and  fears  to  flee. 
And  the  faded  loves  cling  mournfully, 
When  shadows  fall. 


112  REFLECTION. 

May  our  days  be  happy,  full,  complete. 
And  the  paths  be  smooth  for  piteous  feet 
To  walk  on.     May  life's  billowy  sea 
Sink  down  to  ripples  restfully, 
When  shadows  fall. 

April,  1888.  W. 


REFLECTION. 

AN    EXAMPLE   OF   ENGLISH   VERSE. 

EDMUND    WATSON    TAYLOR. 

Within  the  deepening  mirror  of  thine  eyes 
I  see  a  sweet  reflection  of  my  face  ; 
But  well  I  know  that  beauteous  mirror  lies, 
For  it  doth  lend  to  me  a  sweeter  grace 
Than  that  which  I  possess.     A  flatt'ring  trace 
Of  softened  features  there  my  love  espies 
Within  the  deepening  mirror  of  thine  eyes. 

Within  the  deepening  mirror  of  thine  eyes 

I  see  a  sweet  reflection  of  my  face  ; 

Oh  !  let  no  glist'ning  tear-drop  there  arise, 

Close  not  thine  eager  eyelids  for  a  space. 

However  brief  it  be,  lest  it  efface, 

Ere  imaged  on  thy  soul,  the  lie  that  lies 

Within  the  deepening  mirror  of  thine  eyes. 

June,  1888. 


RECOLLECTIONS.  1 1 3 

RECOLLECTIONS. 

JAMES   LINDSAY   GORDON. 
L 

Remembering  her  'neath  earlier  skies, 

With  April  winds  astir, 
Existence  gains  a  fairer  guise 

Remembering  her. 

In  golden  noons  of  days  that  were 

I  hear  her  voice's  melodies — 
Blending  with  flute  and  dulcimer. 

Closed  are  the  long-lashed  violet  eyes, 

Asleep  this  many  a  year — 
Known  only  of  the  tears  that  rise, 

Remembering  her. 

IL 

The  way  was  sweet  by  which  she  trod 
Where  glad  and  sad  things  meet ; 

Though  sorrow  was  her  staff  and  rod. 
The  way  was  sweet. 

Her  flower  of  faith  bloomed  so  complete, 

She  scarcely  felt  upon  time's  sod 
The  thorns  that  pierced  her  feet. 


114  RECOLLECTIONS. 

Through  all  her  young  life's  period, 
In  light  or  dark,  in  field  or  street, 

With  fragrance  of  her  faith  in  God 
The  way  was  sweet. 

III. 

I  may  not  say  what  skies  have  bent 

Above  her  newer  day  : 
If  peace  is  on  the  wav  she  went 

I  may  not  say. 

Nor  lips  that  sob,  nor  lips  that  pray, 
When  sobs  and  prayers  are  spent, 
Have  told  us  of  that  way. 

But  blent  with  her  was  a  content, 

Gone  since  she  went  away  : 
What  sweeter,  sacred  things  were  blent- 

I  may  not  say. 

IV. 

Remembering  her  in  that  dead  time. 

The  wings  of  sorrow  stir 
My  heart  to  weave  this  simple  rhyme — 

Remembering  her. 

The  pureness  of  the  things  that  were 

Used  vine-like  round  her  life  to  climb, 
My  verse  cannot  aver. 


AND  NOW  SHE'S  MARRIED.         115 

But  all  the  bells  of  memory  chime, 

And  in  their  strain  I  hear 
The  music  of  life's  golden  prime — 

Remembering  her. 
December,  1888.  J*  L.  G. 


AND   NOW   SHE'S   MARRIED. 

TO   FRENCH   INCONSTANCY. 

J.  McD.  PATTERSON. 

Oh,  cigarette,  the  amulet 

That  charms  afar  unrest  and  sorrow  ; 
The  magic  wand  that  far  beyond 

To-day  can  conjure  up  to-morrow  ; 
Like  love's  desire,  thy  crown  of  fire. 

So  softly  with  the  twilight  blending  ; 
And,  ah,  meseems  a  poet's  dreams 

Are  in  thy  wreaths  of  smoke  ascending. 

My  cigarette  !  can  I  forget 

How  Louise  and  I  in  Paris  weather 
Sat  in  the  shade  les  rideaux  made 

And  rolled  the  fragrant  weed  together  ? 
I  at  her  side,  beatified. 

To  hold  and  guide  her  fingers  willing  ; 
She  rolling  slow  the  paper  snow, 

Putting  my  heart  in  with  the  filling. 


Ii6     DECLARATION  IN  ASSUMPSIT. 

Oh,  cigarette,  I  see  her  yet, 

The  white  smoke  from  her  red  lips  curling- 
Her  dreamy  eyes,  her  soft  replies, 

Her  gentle  sighs,  her  laughter  purling  ! 
Ah,  dainty  roll,  whose  parting  soul 

Ebbs  out  in  many  a  snowy  billow, 
I,  too,  would  burn,  could  I  but  earn 

Upon  her  lips  so  soft  a  pillow  ! 

But,  cigarette,  the  gay  coquette 

Has  long  forgot  the  flame  she  lighted  ; 
And  you  and  I,  unthinking,  by 

Alike  are  thrown,  alike  are  slighted. 
The  darkness  gathers  fast  without — 

A  raindrop  on  my  window  plashes  ; 
My  cigarette  and  heart  are  out. 

And  naught  is  left  me  but  the  ashes. 
December,  1888. 


DECLARATION    IN   ASSUMPSIT. 

JOHN   DOE   VS.  SUSAN  ROE. 

EDWARD   C.    TUCKER. 

John  Doe  complains  of  Susan  Roe, 
That  she,  with  scheming  art, 

Has  stolen  from  the  said  John  Doe 
His  valuable  heart. 


DECLARA  TION  IN  A  S  SUMP  SIT.      1 1 7 

For  this,  to  wit,  that  heretofore, 

To  wit,  November  nine, 
She  called  the  said  John  Doe  an  oak 

And  styled  herself  the  vine. 

And  later  on  the  aforesaid  day, 

With  malice  all  prepense, 
The  said  defendant  ate  ice-cream 

At  plaintiffs  great  expense. 

And  then  and  there,  to  said  John  Doe, 

Said  Susan  Roe  implied 
That  she  would  go  in  coverture 

To  be  said  plaintiffs  bride. 

And  this  to  do  she  has  refused. 

And  thus,  with  cruel  art, 
Has  stolen  from  the  said  John  Doe 

His  valuable  heart. 

And  so  he  prays  this  county  court 

To  do  him  justice  meet ; 
Likewise  for  damages  he  prays. 

Therefore  he  brings  his  suite. 
December,  1888. 


Il8    ''  GOD  IS  ETERNAL  LONELINESS.'' 


"GOD    IS   ETERNAL  LONELINESS." 

R.    T.    W.    DUKE,   JR. 
(See  Mrs.  Rives-Chanler's  sonnet  in  November  "  Lippincott's.'"') 

"God  is  eternal  loneliness." — Ah,  no! 
For  souls  of  children  ever  at  His  feet, 
Cling  softly,  and  around  Him  fleet 
White-winged  messengers,  who  come  and  go, 
Bearing  petitions  that  our  want  or  woe 
Breathe  for  His  ear  alone  :  and  theft  the  sweet, 
Bright  songs  of  angels — such  as  never  greet 
Another's  hearing — in  such  raptures  flow 
That  all  His  presence  is  alight  with  song  : 
And  as  He  walks,  the  blessed  saints  do  throng 

About  His  footsteps,  praising  ceaselessly  ; 
And  we,  when  we  awaken,  yet  shall  see 
What  those  who  know  Him  best  have  known  full 
long- 
All  hearts  that  love  Him  keep  Him  company. 
February,  1889.  ZeTE. 


BALLADE.  II9 

BALLADE. 

W.  R.  GORDON. 

When  tender  flowers  from  the  earth  are  springing, 

And  lend  the  morning  air  their  fragrance  sweet ; 
When  maidens  seek  the  pale  arbutus  clinging 

'Neath  last  year's  leaves  that  rustle  round  their 
feet; 

When  with  first  love  their  pulses  learn  to  beat, 
With  lovers  wandering  through  the  sunlit  ways, 

Then,  like  a  dream  with  happiness  replete, 
I  call  to  mind  a  love  of  by-gone  days. 

When  to  his  mate  the  night-bird's  song  is  ringing 

Down  from  the  oak-tree's  moonlit  waving  crest, 
In  trembling  notes,  his  sweetest  love-tale  singing 

To  her,  as  she  sits  brooding  on  their  nest ; 

When  all  save  bird  and  breeze  have  gone  to  rest, 
And  over  all  there  falls  the  moonlight's  haze. 

Then,  all  alone,  with  hot  tears  scarce  suppressed, 
I  call  to  mind  a  love  of  by-gone  days. 

When  autumn-time  the  blighting  frost  is  bringing, 

And  meadow-flowers  begin  to  droop  and  die  ; 
When  birds,  in  headlong  flight,  are  swiftly  winging 

Their  way  into  a  sunnier,  southern  sky  ; 

When  clouds  above,  in  shapeless  masses  fly, 
And  winter,  coming,  suffers  no  delays, 

Then,  like  a  vision  that  floats  slowly  by, 
I  call  to  mind  a  love  of  by-gone  days. 


I20        THE  LAST  OF   THE  FAIRIES. 


ENVOI. 

When  hope  after  hope  falls,  blighted,  and  decays. 
Like  wilted  petals  of  a  summer  rose, 
Know,  then,  'tis  sweet,  amidst  our  griefs  and 
woes. 

To  call  to  mind  a  love  of  by-gone  days. 

April,  1889.  W.  L. 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   FAIRIES. 

GEORGE  L.   LYMAN. 

*Tls  said  the  days  of  fairies 
Have  long  since  passed  away  ; 

That  hushed  are  all  their  merry  sports, 
And  stilled  their  thoughtless  play. 

The  careless,  merry,  naughty  sprites, 

Who  lured  the  traveller  on 
With  elfish  lanterns  burning  bright. 

They  say  have  long  since  gone. 

And  yet  there  is  one  fairy  left — 

For  fear  she  might  depart. 
To  join  once  more  her  happy  race, 

I  shut  her  in  my  heart. 


THE  LAST  OF   THE  FAIRIES,        121 

At  least  I  thought  I'd  shut  her  up, 

But  by  her  magic  power 
She's  gained  the  mastery  of  me, 

And  rules  me  to  this  hour. 

She  is  a  cunning  tyrant. 

Who  rules  by  dint  of  smiles — 
How  can  so  soft  a  heart  as  mine 

Resist  her  witching  wiles  ? 

There  is  a  pair  of  elf-lamps,  too, 

Which  others  may  not  see. 
But  which,  wherever  I  may  go. 

Dance  luringly  'round  me. 

Their  light  is  clear  and  radiant, 

They  sparkle,  glow,  and  leap  ; 
They  will  not  let  me  work  or  play — 

They  steal  away  my  sleep. 

They  flit  about  my  study  ; 

They  chase  me  in  the  street ; 
However  I  may  hide  away. 

They  spy  out  my  retreat. 

And  yet  I  do  not  hate  them — 

The  fairy  and  the  lights — 
Although  they  rob  my  waking  thoughts 

And  fill  my  dreams  at  nights. 


122  LIFE, 

No,  no  !  I  love  them  dearly  ! 

Why  ?     Do  not  be  surprised — 
The  fairy  is  my  own  true  love, 

The  lanterns  are  her  eyes  1 

April,  1889. 


LIFE. 


AN   ALLEGORY. 


W.    S.    HAMILTON. 


A  SAILOR-BOY  looks  out  upon  the  sea. 

Whose  sunlit  bosom  gently  swells  and  falls  ; 
He  longs  to  set  his  new-made  vessel  free 

And  follow  whither  tempting  fortune  calls. 
The  bright  waves  lift  their  snowy  caps  to  him, 

And  nod  their  heads,  and  talk  of  other  lands, 
And,  pointing  where  the  distant  sails  grow  dim, 

They  come  to  tell  strange  secrets  to  the  sands. 
The  young  boy's  heart  is  filled  with  ecstasy — 

New  power  and  promise  never  known  before— 
'Oh,  thou  art  fair  and  smiling,  gentle  sea  ! 

Why  do  I  linger  longer  on  thy  shore? 
And  I  will  love  thee,  for  thou  art  to  me 

The  mistress  of  all  hope  I  must  pursue  ; 
And  I  will  trust  my  untried  bark  to  thee. 

For  naught  can  be  so  fair  but  must  be  true. 


AUNT  PHCEBE'S  REMONSTRANCE.  ^2^ 

"My  father  told  dark  tales  of  storms  and  rocks, 

He  swore  that  thou  wert  false  and  fickle,  sea  ; 
His  ship  went  down  one  night  in  tempest  shocks, 

And  men  said  'twas  because  he  trusted  thee. 
But  that  was  in  a  storm.     I'll  not  believe 

Their  stories  now,  for  storms  are  of  the  past ; 
My  voyage  is  future,  and  could'st  thou  deceive 

While  such  sweet  smiles  of  wooing  beauty  last  ?" 

*  -x-  -x-  -x-  *  -Jt 

Another  wreck  is  found  upon  the  shore, 

And   treacherous  waves  are   shouting  in  their 
glee  ; 
But  still  the  gentle  deep  will  smile  once  more 

When  sailor-boys  look  out  upon  the  sea. 

March,  1890.  N.  B.  K. 


AUNT    PHOEBE'S    REMONSTRANCE. 

R.    F.    WILLIAMS. 

Afy  Mistis  !    You  gwine  marry  her,  you  say  ! 
'Fo'  Gord,  now,  Marster,  you's  foolin'  me,  I  knows  ; 
Gwine  tek  dat  little  gal  o*  ourn  away  ! 

Why,  she  ain't  nuthin*  mo'n  a  chile  ! 

You  go  back  home  and  wait  awhile, 
Untel  she  grows. 

Why,  Marster,  'twa'n't  but  little  while  ergo 
Dat  I  fuss  hel*  her  in  ole  Missis'  room  ; 


124  ^^.Vr  PHCEBE'S  REMONSTRANCE, 

An'  now  you  tells  me  she's  done  grow'd  up  ?  Sho, 
Dat  chile  ain't  no  mo'  fittin*  fer 
To  marry  you,  I  tell  you,  sir, 

Dan  dis  here  broom. 


She  sholy  was  a  fine-raised  chile,  I  knows, 
Kaze  I  he'p  raise  her,  sir ;  I  brung  her  up. 
When  she  wa'n't  mo'n  ten  years  ole,  I  s'pose, 
Ole  Miss'  use*  stan'  her  by  de  wall, 
'N'  she'd  say  de  twelb  commandments  all 
Widout  a  stop. 

An*  when  I  use*  to  tek  her  up  to  bade, 
Jes'  sharp  at  eight — ole  Miss'  was  punkshall,  sho — 
I'd  tek  her  in  my  lap  an*  comb  her  hade, 
An*  den  I'd  tell  de  stories  to  her 
'Bout  raslin'  Jacob  an'  Marse  Noah 
An'  his  rainbow. 

One  day  ole  Marster  tuck  her  off  to  school, 
Whar  de  gret  folks  had  dere  chillen  larn. 
When  she  come  back,  she'd  set  on  dat  dar  stool, 
'N'  play  dat  piany  till  it  soun* 
Fit  like  Brer  Gabriel  done  come  down 
Here  wid  his  harn. 

An*  now  you*s  gwine  to  tek  my  chile  away  ? 
What's  me  'n  'old  Miss'  gwine  do  widout  her  den  .? 


PARAPHRASE    OF  HORACE,  125 

What  make  dat  you  cyarn't  come  down  here  an' 
stay  ? 
Gwine  tek  dat  preshus  lam*  wid  you 
Fum  Miss'  and  her  old  mammy,  too — 
Say,  Marster,  when  ? 

Not  'fo'  nex'  fall !     Oh,  thank  de  Lord  ob  Grace  ! 
Kaze  we's  gwine  hab  her  fer  a  little  while  ! 
When  she's  done  gone,  'twon't  be  de  same  ole  place. 

But  we  befo'  de  Lord  mus'  bow — 

Thank'ee,  Marster — lemme  go  now 
An'  fin*  my  chile. 

April,  1890.  W. 

PARAPHRASE    OF    HORACE. 

BOOK  II.      ODE   III. 

CHARLES   POLLARD  COCKE. 

Remember  thou  a  changeless  mind  in  adverse  fate 

to  keep. 
Nor  let  thy  heart  'mid  prosperous  things  in  pride 

within  thee  leap, 
O  Dellius,  destined  soon  to  go  to  dreary  Hades' 

realms  below. 

Whether  thou  liv'st  thy  span  of  life,  endued  with 
all  regret. 

Or  stretched  in  some  green,  shady  nook,  thy  sor- 
rows doth  forget. 

Or  through  the  festal  days  recline,  blessed  with 
Falernia's  lusty  wine, 


126  PARAPHRASE    OF  HORACE. 

Where  overhead,  with  loving  leaves,  a  shelt'ring 

shade  entwine. 
The   silver  poplar's  branches  and  the   sprays   of 

mighty  pine, 
And  where  the  murmuring  streamlet  pranks,  the 

brightest  blossoms  from  her  banks, 


Bring  thither  wines  and  perfumes  and  the  short- 
lived blooms  that  blow, 

The  roses'  blooms  that  fade  and  fall  with  coming 
of  the  snow  : 

These — these  enjoy  while  youth  from  thee  keeps 
weftage  of  the  Sisters  Three. 


For  thou  must  yield  thy  acres  broad  and  naught 

from  thy  house  save, 
And  leave  thy  villa  which   the   floods   of  tawny 

Tiber  lave, 
An  heir  the  wealth  will  soon  obtain,  which  thou 

heap'st  up,  O  man,  in  vain. 


It  nothing  matters  whether  sprung  from  Inachus 

of  old, 
A  rich  man,  or  a  pauper  born  of  even  the  lowliest 

mould. 
Thou  dwellest  under  earth's  clear  sky,  thou  who 

with  death  must  dwell  for  aye. 


FORE  SH A  DO  WINGS,  1 2  7 

We  mortals  all  are  forced  to  come  unto  the  self- 
same bourne, 

The  lot  of  each  falls   soon  or  late  from  out  the 
shaken  urn, 

And  launches  him  upon  the  sea  ruled  o'er  by  pale 
Persephone. 
April,  1891.  C.   P.  C. 


FORESHADOWINGS. 

JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON. 

You  laugh  me  down  with  light  and  pitying  scorn 
Because  I  cannot  let  one  sorrow  pass ; 
You  think  the  air  too  summer-sweet,  the  grass 
Too  green  and  fresh,   the   roseate,   wind-stirred 

morn 
Too  golden  with  the  light  of  joys  new  born 
For  grief  to  cloud  the  soul's  translucent  glass 
With  breath  of  bitter  lips  that  cry,  "  Alas  ! 
Where  have  the  old  days  and  the  old  hopes  gone?" 

Dearest,  I  am  no  prophet  of  evil — yet 

I  know  a  day  shall  come  at  Time's  sure  call, 

When  you,  O  radiant  mocker  at  regret. 

Will  cry,  as  from  your  hands  love's  flowers  fall. 

While  those  divine  eyes,  shadowless  now,  grow 

wet : 
*•  I  know,  at  last — I  understand  it  all !  " 

June,  1891.  J.   L.  G. 


128   BALLADE   OF  CHEERFUL    VERSE, 
BALLADE   OF   CHEERFUL   VERSE. 

J.    S.   DOUBLEDAY. 

Write  me  a  gay  ballade 

Or  saucy  villanelle, 
In  numbers  clear  and  glad — 

Like  waters  of  Chapelle. 
I  want  no  faint  "  Ah  !  well ! " 

Or  grief  that  pierces  Hades  ; 
But  some  clear-cut  roundel 

That's  sure  to  please  the  ladies. 

I  want  no  Galahad 

Nor  pining  Astrophel, 
Nor  versified  salade 

Of  wit  a  Max  O'Rell  ; 
Nor  sonnets  to  Estelle, 

Nor  odes  to  Sals  and  Sadies ; 
But  some  sharp  kyrielle 

That's  sure  to  please  the  ladies. 

Write  me  the  latest  fad — 

Something  that's  ultra  swell, 
Something  that's  "  not  so  bad," 

Something  that  does  to  tell ; 
I  want  no  di'lect  spell 

Of  Remus's  and  Brady's, 
But  something  (in  a  shell) 

That's  sure  to  please  the  ladies. 


ON   TYING  DAPHNE'S  SHOE.         129 

l'envoi. 
So,  Muse,  my  yearning  quell 

With  something  that  well-paid  is, 
And  wear  a  cap  and  bell 
That's  sure  to  please  the  ladies. 
» November,  1891.  J*  S.  D. 


AT   DAWN. 
CHARLES   POLLARD   COCKE. 

Night's  last  hour  brought  before  Dawn's  judg- 
ment-bar, 
Lies  there,  touched  dead  by  his  diviner  eyes, 
While  from  the  flushing  deep  of  Orient  skies 

The  waves  of  light  wash  round  the  morning-star. 
October,  1892. 


ON   TYING  DAPHNE'S   SHOE. 

J.    STUART   BRYAN. 

Tying  her  shoe,  I  knelt  at  Daphne's  feet. 
My  fumbling  fingers  found  such  service  sweet, 
And  lingered  o'er  the  task  till,  when  I  rose, 
Cupid  had  bound  me  captive  in  her  bows. 
October,  1892. 
9 


I30  THE  FLIRT. 

THE    FLIRT. 

JOHN   S.    MOSBY. 

[This  hitherto  unknown  tragedy  was  lately  discovered  in  the 
ruins  of  a  Greek  temple  at  Mycenae.  It  is  supposed  to  be  one 
of  the  early  plays  of  ^schylus.] 

DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

PHiCON,  a  Law  Student. 

Philomel,  a  last  year's  Graduate. 

Phyllis,  a  College  Belle. 

Janitor. 

Messenger. 

Chorus  of  Law  Students. 

Chorus  of  Professors. 

Chorus  of  College  Belles. 

Chorus  of  College  Widows. 

Chorus  of  College  Bums, 

Scene. — The  Portico  of  a  University  Rotunda; 
time,  '8g. 

Enter  Janitor. 

Janitor.  I  am  the  Janitor.     For  year  on  year 
Within  these  classic  halls  I've  swept  the  floors 
And  carried  out  the  trash  ;  I  toll  the  bell 
Whose  sullen  clang  the  tardy  student  calls 
To  lecture  unprepared  ;  anon  I  go 
With  awful  summons  armed  to  bid  some  wretch, 
Who's  "cut"  too  many  lectures,  or,  mayhap, 
Has  made  night  howl  as  did  the  Bacchant  throng 
That  revelled  on  the  snowy  hills  of  Thrace, 


THE  FLIRT.  13 1 

Come  haste  before  the  Chairman  to  receive 
His  final  judgment,  or — accursed  fate — 
For  nine  long  months  to  shun  the  glowing  cup 
Of  Norton's  seedling  and  the  amber  juice 
Pressed  from  Kentucky's  fairest  fields  of  corn. 

\Exit. 

Enter  Chorus  of  Law  Students  with  PHiEON. 

All.  Legal  Students  all,  we  come 
Hurrying  to  the  lecture-room, 
Saturated  with  the  lore 
Culled  last  night  from  Volume  IV. 
Each  appliance 
In  this  science 

Framed  for  victimizing  clients 
We  shall  study  o'er  and  o'er. 
Our  minds  are  deeply  fraught 
With  the  mysteries  of  tort 
And  the  way  that  suits  are  brought. 
Subtle  differences  we  see 
'Twixt  the  Law  and  Equity, 
And  we  know  the  craven  natures 
Of  Virginia  Legislatures. 
Yet  at  times  we  must  confess 
We're  a  little  mixed,  we  guess  ; 
Laws  of  Rents,  and  Writs  of  Error, 
Shelley's  Case,  Parol  Demurrer 
Twist  and  dance  in  motley  train 
Through  our  overburdened  brain. 
But  if  you  want  to  make  B.  L., 


132  THE  FLIRT. 

Know  'tis  not  by  steady  toil, 
Burning  dim  the  midnight  oil. 
Laugh  ye,  laugh  ye,  long  and  well 
At  the  jokes  Professors  tell ! 

{Exit  all  but  Ph^eon. 

PhcBon.  Hamlet's  famed  soliloquy 
Was  "  to  be  or  not  to  be." 
Mine  is  no  such  question,  but 
'Tis  cut  or  not  to  cut. 
When  I  came  six  months  ago 
I  resolved  to  study  so. 
Study  and  shun  "Calico." 
But  lately  in  the  Easter  dance 
Phyllis  fair  I  met  by  chance  ; 
I  was  finished  at  a  glance. 
Never  maid  as  fair  as  she 
Tripped  the  vales  of  Arcady. 
And  she  loves  me,  this  I  kno\v ; 
She  herself  has  told  me  so. 
And  she  couldn't  lie — oh,  no  ! 
Then  she  says  her  only  aim 
Is  to  feed  our  constant  flame. 
I'll  "cut"  lecture  then  to-day. 
And  I'll  seek  her  out  straightway  ; 
Though  my  Governor  complains 
Of  my  bills  at  King's  and  Payne's, 
Soon  behind  a  spanking  team 
We  shall  live  in  Love's  young  dream. 

[Exit. 


THE  FLIRT.  133 

Enter  Chorus  of  College  Belles  with  Phyllis. 

Chorus.  Aren't  we  charming  ? 
Aren't  we  pretty  ? 
Graceful  ?  Tempting  ? 
Chatty  ?  Witty  ? 
Careless  of  maternal  prudence, 
We  will  flirt  with  College  Students. 
They're  at  lecture,  what  a  pity  ! 
Critics  say  we  have  our  faults. 
But  how  gracefully  we  waltz  ! 
Critics  are  distasteful  to  us 
As  a  dose  of  doctor's  salts. 
But  we  like  the  men  adoring, 
On  their  bended  knees  imploring 
For  our  hearts,  as  if,  poor  creatures, 
We  would  ever  let  them  teach  us 
Such  a  thing  as  constant  love. 
Innocence  and  art  we  mix. 
Playing  our  coquettish  tricks, 
While  we  talk  "Jeff."  politics. 
Looking  all  the  while  as  charming 
As  the  angels  from  above. 
Oh,  we  are  the  very  sweetest 
And  the  neatest 
And  completest 
Set  of  girls  that  ever  tripped  a  measure  on 

a  German  floor. 
That  is  what  the  students  tell  us — 
Oh,  the  dear,  delightful  fellows  ! — 


134  THE  FLIRT. 

How  we  make  the  Widows  jealous  ! 
How  they  thirst  for  our  gore  ! 

{Exit  all  but  Phyllis. 

Enter  Chorus  of  College  Widows  {chanting  in  a 
7ninor  key). 

Chorus,  Oh,  how  the  light  of  sunny  April  days 
Digs  up  the  bones  of  buried  memories  ! 
The  sight  of  these  white  arcades  to  us  bring 
The  recollection  of  some  long-dead  Spring, 
When  we,  as  fair  and  fresh  as  flowers  of  May, 
Did  flirt  and  flirt  and  flirt  the  livelong  day. 
Too  uncontent  with  one  true  heart,  we  strove 
To  keep  a  half  a  dozen  men  in  love, 
And  through  the  dance  of  life  we  whirled  so  fast, 
Nor  dreamed  the  piper  must  be  paid  at  last. 
Then  we  grew  old,  our  charms  began  to  wane 
And  left  the  fruits  that  follow  folly's  train. 
Cold,  deadened  feelings  and  an  empty  brain  ; 
Nor  can  we  turn  the  wheels  of  time  again, 

Phyllis.  I  wonder  where  my  Phaeon  can  have 
gone  ? 
To  lecture  ?     No  ;  I've  got  him  too  well  trained 
To  spend  his  time  in  thumbing  drowsy  books 
When  he  can  sit  and  gaze  into  mine  eyes. 

Chorus.  Oh,  maiden  so  fair. 

In  thy  morning  of  youth, 
Be  careful,  beware, 
Be  cautious,  beware, 


THE  FLIRT.  135 

We  are  telling  the  truth. 
Do  not  flirt — oh,  forbear, 
You  will  rue  it  in  sooth. 
Phyllis,  Get  you  hence,  I  don't  care. 
Chorus,  You  are  Philomel's  own, 
So  let  Phaeon  alone, 

Or  you'll  be  in  the  soup  ere  the  roses  are  blown. 
Phyllis.  I  told  you  to  go,  hush  your  dull  mono- 
tone. 
Chorus.  Oh,  listen,  we  pray  thee  ; 
If  nothing  can  stay  thee. 
Then  gaze  on  us  Widows  left  weeping  alone. 

Phyllis.  You're  horrid  and  hateful. 
You're  ugly,  deceitful. 
I'll  do  as  I  please  to,  as  sure  as  you're  born. 

Chorus.  Then  go  thy  way,  young,  headstrong 
Miss, 
Nor  give  us  any  thanks 
For  good  advice,  but  hearken  this — 
Beware,  you'll  join  our  ranks. 

{Exit  Chorus  of  College  Widows. 

Phyllis.  There,  hear  them  lecture  me  like  some 
old  Prof. 
They're  jealous  of  the  conquests  that  I  make, 
That's  all ;  for  what  did  nature  give  to  me 
Eyes  like  the  fawn's,  lips  like  the  opening  rose. 
And  the  sweet  smile  of  artless  innocence — 
Unless  to  chain  men's  hearts  ?     I'm  far  too  sweet 
To  be  content  with  one — that's  Philomel^ 


136  THE   FLIRT. 

Who  just  last  session,  falling  deep  in  love, 
Did  woo  and  win  what  little  heart  I  have. 
And  now  in  two  short  weeks  he  doth  return 
To  wed  me  ;  Til  just  have  what  fun  I  can 
With  Phaeon  until  Philomel  returns. 

Enter  PH.EON. 

PhcBon.    You   here  ?      I've   sought   you    every- 
where.    As  rest 
To  travellers  or  beer  to  students,  so 
Are  you  unto  my  longing  eyes,  sweet  love. 

{^Kisses  her, 

Phyllis.  Oh,  Phason,  when  I  am  with  you  I  feel 
As  though  this  earth  were  paradise.     My  heart 
Doth  throb  in  ecstasy. 

PhcEon.  But  is  there  none 
Whom  you  love  more  ?     One  Philomel,  I  hear, 
Doth  hold  that  heart  in  thrall,  and  people  say 
You  are  engaged  to  him. 

Phyllis.  Oh,  Phason,  how 
Can  you  so  doubt  my  burning  love  for  you, 
And  believe  the  lies  the  carping  gossips  tell ! 
I  love  but  you,  nor  ever  did  or  shall 
Love  any  man  one  tittle  of  as  much. 
This  Philomel,  I  swear,  is  naught  to  me. 
Nor  I  to  him. 

Phceon.  Sweetheart,  that  is  enough. 
I'd  believe  you  over  hosts  ;  come,  let  us  go 
And  take  a  drive. 


THE   FLIRT.  137 

Phyllis  \aside\.  I  knew  'twas  coming  ! 
These  buggy-drives  are  such  delightful  things 
For  spooning  !     Oh  ! 

Enter  Messenger. 
Messenger.  My  lady,  here's  a  note. 
The  writer  bade  me  use  the  winged  feet 
Of  Mercury,  and  anxious  doth  he  wait 
An  answer. 

Phyllis  [aside].  O  ye  Gods!  from  Philomel, 
Who,  unexpected,  hath  arrived  and  bids 
Me  meet  him  at  my  home  this  very  hour  ! 
Ridiculous  !     I  cannot  miss  a  drive 
For  half  a  doz^n  fiances;  not  I  ! 

What  a  pretty  mess  I'm  in  : 

Isn't  it  a  perfect  sin 

Philomel  should  come  ?     I've  been 

Just  too  cunning  in  the  ways 

I've  managed  these  two  lovers. 

Heavens,  what  a  row  'twould  raise 

If  my  flirting  he  discovers  ! 

But  this  messenger  I'll  tell 

Soothing  words  for  Philomel. 

Then,  with  Phaeon  by  my  side, 

I  shall  take  my  buggy-ride. 

[To  Messenger. 
Say  thou  to  Philomel  I  fain  would  look 
This  instant  on  his  sweet,  dear  face,  and  say 
How  much  I  love  ;  but  duty  bids  me  stay 
With  a  sick  friend,  who  languishes  in  pain. 
I  shall  be  with  him  soon. 


13^  THE  FLIRT, 

[To  Ph^on. 

Come,  Phaeon,  hurry.  [Exetmt  omnes. 

Enter  Chorus  of  Professors.     They  join  hands  in 

two   co7iceniric   circles   afid  chant  as   they 

move  slowly  in  opposite  directions. 

Chorus :  Strophe  (a).    For    years    collectively 
we've  sought 
To  see  if  we  could  find 
A  single  great  or  little  thought 
Unknown  to  our  mind. 
Yet  not  one  instance  can  we  "spot," 
Or  find  the  smallest  grain 
Of  knowledge  that  we  haven't  got, 
We've  sought  for  more  in  vain. 

Anti-Strophe  {a).  We  know  it  all,  we  know  it  all, 
We've  sought  for  more  in  vain. 

Strophe  {b).  From  Adam's  birth,  one  early  day 
In  that  Primeval  Spring, 
To  some  last  week's  discovery, 
We  know  each  single  thing. 
There's  nought  beyond  our  mental  sight. 
Or  that  we  can't  explain. 
Our  knowledge  taps  the  Infinite  ; 
We've  sought  for  more  in  vain. 

Anti-Strophe  {b).  We  know  it  all,  we  know  it  all, 
We've  sought  for  more  in  vain. 

[Exit  Chorus  of  Professors. 
Enter  Phaeon. 

PhcEon,  I've  had  a  drive  with  my  best  girl. 
And  now  I'm  on  a  bum. 


THE  FLIRT,  139 

The  merry  billiard  ball  I'll  twirl, 
And  drink  Jamaica  rum. 
But  then  I'd  like  good  company — 
I  wish  the  gang  would  come. 

Enter  Chorus  of  College  Bums. 

Chorus,  We're  drunk  as  an  owl  ! 
Do  we  show  it  ? 
And  we  all  want  to  howl, 

•Let  us  do  it ! 
Yow  !  we're  here  ! 
Can't  you  tell  it  ? 
We're  loaded  with  beer, 
Can't  you  smell  it  ?. 
We've  a  mortgage  on  the  College  and  a  lien  on 

the  State. 
When  we  get  full  on  beer  we  own  creation  up  to 

date. 
When  liquor  gets  the  upper  hand  of  our  addled 

brains, 
We  rival  the  Coyotes  of  the  Colorado  plains. 
We  know  that  we  are  gentlemen  ;  but,  then,  it  is 

the  mark 
Of  gentlemen  to, act  like  fiends  when  they  are  on 

a  lark. 
So  take  a  drink,  O  Phason,  dear,  we'll  raise  plu- 
perfect Cain, 
And  when  we  sober  up,  why,  then — we'll  all  get 
full  again  ! 

[PH.EON  drinks. 


14^  THE  FLIRT. 

Enter  Janitor. 
Janitor,  The  Chairman,  Phaeon,  craves  a  word 
with  thee. 
Immediately  his  brow  is  overcast 
Like  dun  Cithaeron  when  the  winter's  storm 
Beats  on  his  craggy  front. 

PhcEon.  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

My  name  is  Dennis  !     For  too  much  I've  cut 
My  lectures,  and  I  know  he'll  smell  my  breath. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 

Enter  Philomel. 

Philotnel.  A  pretty  game  !     Some  sick  friend, 

so  she  said. 
And  yet  I  saw  her  not  an  hour  ago. 
Driving   with  some   young    Dudeling.      Ay,   and 

more, 
I  saw  them  kiss  like  doves  ;  I've  had  enough  ! 
I'm  wiser  than  I  was  twelve  months  ago. 

Enter  Phyllis. 

Phyllis,  Dear  Philomel !     My  own  !    How  long 
it  seems 
Since  last  on  you  I  feasted  these  fond  eyes  ! 
And  now — but  why  so  cold  and  why  so  stern  ? 
You  do  not  kiss  me. 

Philomel,  I  have  seen  your  friend. 
Whose  pain  you  soothed — a  buggy-drive,  ha  !  ha  ! 
The  joke's  on  me,  but  I  shall  trump  your  trick. 
My  lady,  find  your  fiance  elsewhere. 


THE  FLIRT.  141 

Phyllis.  What !  Philomel,  you  will  not  leave  me 
so? 
Do  but  forgive  this  little  one  offence, 
Or  else  you  break  my  heart.     I  swear  to  you 
My  love  is  yours,  and  for  the  man  you  saw 
I  care,  oh,  less  than  nothing. 

Philomel.  And  for  you 

I  care  about  the  same.     I  leave  to-day, 
Nor  shall  return.     Farewell,  my  pretty  maid. 

YExit  Philomel. 

Enter  Chorus  of  College  Widows. 
Chorus.  Did  we  not  tell  thee  to  beware, 
O  pretty,  headstrong  maiden  ? 
This  flirting  is  a  cunning  snare, 
And  thoughtless  girls  who  venture  there 
Find  pleasure  sorrow-laden. 
Phyllis.  Unhappy  day  when  first  I  saw  the  light ! 

Enter  Janitor. 
yanitor.  Ah,   woe  !   woe  !  woe  !  another  man 

gone  wrong  ! 
Phyllis,  Who  is  it  ?     I  pry  thee  tell  me  quick  ! 
Janitor.  Ye  ladies  who  stand  round  about  me 
here  ! 
Ye  summer  clouds  that  gather  in  the  skies  ! 
Weep,  weep  for  Phaeon,  he  returns  to  us  no  more. 
Phyllis.  I  knew  *twas  he  !     Has  Phason  gone  ? 
Oh,  my  last  hope  ! 

Janitor.  Alas,  'tis  true,  my  lady. 
For  hardly  had. he  reached  the  Chairman's  room 


142  THE  FLIRT, 

Before  the  smell  of  beer  did  fill  the  air, 

Overpowering  ;  then  the  Chairman,  wroth  before. 

By  reason  of  the  lectures  he  had  "cut," 

Did  rage  upon  him  like  the  Afric  blast 

That  tears  the  whistling  cordage  from  the  yards 

Of  some  great  merchantman,  and  strews  the  main 

With  broken  masts  ;  so  did  the  Chairman  rage. 

And  swore  that  Phason  already  too  long 

Had  much  abused  his  patience.     He  must  go. 

He  gave  him  just  one  little  hour  to  leave, 

And  cautioned  him  to  no  more  disgrace 

The  arcades  with  his  presence.     He  has  gone 

To  rusticate  upon  a  cattle  ranch 

In  Western  Texas.     Oh  !  unhappy  fate  ! 

Phyllis.  Yes,  wretche.d  fate  for  him  !  but  doubly 
worse 
For  me  !     Farewell,  O  Phason  and  flirtation  ! 
I  see  my  doom.     My  destiny  shall  be 
A  College  Widow's  !     And  my  race  is  run  ! 
She  approaches  the  College    Widows  and  takes 

them  by  the  hand.     They  all  join  hajids  and 

sing. 

CHORUS   OF  COLLEGE  WIDOWS   AND   PHYLLIS. 

College  Widows  all  are  we  ; 

Weeping,  grieving  ceaselessly. 

Students  shun  us. 

And  upon  us 

Vulgar  wits  heap  raillery. 


THE  FLIRT,  I43 

Once  we  each  did  have  a  beau, 

Sometimes  five  and  six,  and  oh  ! 

How  entrancing 

Was  our  dancing  ! 

All  the  students  told  us  so  ! 

But  those  days  have  passed, 

And  aside  we  have  been  cast, 

Always  thinking, 

Always  shrinking 

From  old  age  that  comes  at  last. 

Maidens  who,  from  head  to  shoon, 

Shine  as  fair  as  buds  in  June, 

Cease  your  scorning, 

Hear  our  warning. 

Or  you'll  join  us  all  too  soon. 

\Exeunt  omnes. 

December,  1889.  KPIO   NPTCZ  Ks. 


THE  END. 


YA  0160 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


